A Sip WIth Less Flavor

So, here I am, simaltaneously counting down the days until I leave and counting down the days I have left. Its a weird little place I am in, resting comfortably in my Spain, getting ready to leave it for my real mom, America.

I study now, a lot, the finals crashing in on me like a surging wave during a thunderstorm of confusion, chaos, and complete emotional indemnity. Alas, I must carry on, studying the literature, art, language, and culture of a nation I have grown to love, appreciate, hate, despise, admire, and know in the past three and a half months. I hope to post more later, but now I am off, to write an essay on Garcia Lorca, a hometown hero of Granada, a poet killed in the Spanish Civil War, and now, the author of the only play I have ever read completely in Spanish.

Sending my love, and getting ready to see everyone soon,
Love
me

Toledo, Spanish Art, Culture...

On to continuing my fanciful retelling of the past weekend,

While most of the weekend was spent in Madrid, the majoirty of our Saturday was spent in La Mancha, walking the cobblestoned streets of Toledo. The city, built upon a very tall, mountain-like hill, looms powerful over you as one approached from the train station (thanks to a modern train system, it is 20 minutes from Madrid to Toledo). Hometown (but NOT birthplace) of EL Greco, his works loomed large in the city, filling catherdrals.

One of his most famous images, a painting of his city, mirrored our walk up to the town. A drizzly and over cast day, the ancient fortress of a town seemed to be exactly like that of his paints. The city, of lurid browns and shaded grays, was a puzzle of a town, a map that seemed like a joke, its history was crushed into the little space within its medieval walls. A history of cultural blending, Jews living amongst nuns, moorish powers looming in the walls, some how mangaed to create the most unique Spanish city I have visited yet.


It was expensive, over priced if you ask me, a tourist trap of 2 euro coffees and little Don Quixote statues, but nonetheless, it was beautiful . I love Toledo, a town apparently famous for its marzipan (mazapan in espanol), it had its own unique personality, one that inspired one of Spain most famous artists, el Greco, and one that inspired me to learn to love Spain once more.

A Chilly Burst of Air

Well, it has officially gotten cold. As I stepped off the Madrid bus I noticed a different type of chill in the air. By the next morning, snow had arrived in the majority of Spain, and while Granada was left unscathed, the bitter wind has blown all the way south into Andalucia.

So, as I waved goodbye to my mom, leaving her in Madrid for the night, I also, unknowingly waved goodbye to autumn. So, here I am, alone, the winter of my trip coinciding perfectly with the actual frost of December.

I have sixteen days until I leave Spain, eleven until I leave Granada. And I finally, after three months, I went to Madrid, the capital, and left Andalucia.

Madrid, the city of lights, of endless nights, of art museums and international people. Half of the metro was foreign, and half of those foreigners were speaking english. The streets were filled all the time, bustling and buzzing with end of November swarms that in America would be directly connected to Thanksgiving, but in Spain, just means another crazy night.

We spent out days in Museusm, eight hours in the Prado, four in the Reina Sofia. Each room unveiling more pieces that I never thought I would ever see, each work enough to define an entire collection. It was overload, but in the most pleasant of ways, a sensory explosion that left me in a state of malaise upon exit.

Madrid was amazing, the food normal, of classic Spanish level, with lots of potatos, eggs, jamon and cheap cheap wine, and my partner in crime, my mommy, was awesome.

I miss you all,
I love you all,
Sincerely,
Me

A Reunion In Madrid

So, I was reunited with my mommy in Madrid, and it was awesome.

Madrid is beautiful and so, well, big. Its spaciousness reminded me of Lisbon, Portugal. Looming neoclassical buildings in light airy blues, rich browns, opening into plazas filled, and I mean FILLED, with people. Little arches opening up into huge spaces, sculptures of Spanish royalty, on horseback, towering over the crowd.


I definitely did not go to any museums, but I will. The Prado, the Reina Sofia, and the Thyss.... Something Gallery are all world famous (although clearly not famous enough for me to remember the name of one, hehe.) It will be nice to visit the museums with someone who, really, taught me to love art, who dragged me through galleries as a kid, who left art books out in the house for me to page through as I slowly grew up, who put the crayon in my right hand (which I would then promptly put in my left hand, my inner southpaw undenialable at even a young age).

Madrid, is, well, European City, exemplified. It has a little less difinitve personality than London, or Amsterdam, or Rome, but it is beautiful and grand nontheless.

Madrid and Momskies

I am counting down until, well tomorrow, when I get to finally leave Granada for the capital of Spain, MADRID!


And best of all? I get to see my mom. Yay!

Haha, I mean, it will be an experience, seeing the city that supposedly represents Spain as its center, both geographically and govermentally. And also, the MUSEUMSSS...will be incredible.

Needless to say I will be doing my homework for the rest of the day, but miss everyone!

Love ya'll
me

Another Day, Another Feelin

Í would like to begin by apologizing, not of the inappropriate accent over that I, I oddly like it, but for my slow spiral into emotion writing. I began this blog to talk about world travels and experiences, cross cultural exchanges and bilingual conversations. I am afraid to admit it, but this little webby site of mine has slowly developed into a creature of my own making, a naval gazing blog pretending to be something it is not. I have been to talk, almost entirely about me, myself, and of course, Í. Well, I am sorry.

I guess, at this point, my adventures here in Spain have become me, and while life has rounded out its roughness, smoothed out its edges, I am still trying to figure out this guy (two thumbs pointed at my chest). It have a little less than one month left, I am returning to Chicago at noon on the 18th. So for now, here I am, in Spain, exploring, savoring and simaltaneously counting down the days until my grand return. I expect flowers, a parade, and no less than three puppies upon my descent back into normalcy.

So, what about Spain? My secret connection, my emotional rock, my HOME. Well, it will weep without me, cry. Alright, maybe not, maybe no one will really care, but I will forever keep this place in my heart. Secretly cuddling my downright Spanishness in the deepest corners of my mind.

I guess, in life, there is no finality but death, and I guess, my relationship with Spain is the same. A living, breathing entity, I have developed a friendship with it, and as soon as I land back in America, I do not know how I will deal without my dear friend. See, I hope to return to Granada one day, to walk Camino de Ronda, visit the Alhambra, climb up to the Mirador, but I do not know when or if ever that will happen. So my goodbye, although hopefully not final, with be indefinite. Hazy. Unclear. Sudden. Sad. Nervous. Excited.

So, here I am, loathing those damn magdelenas (I still hate them) and enjoying the last moments of our life together, preparing for the long distance relationship that I will have after the 18th (I promise to check CNN.com, watching Spanish language TV, try to keep some sort of contact with my friend accross the miles.) I am here, trying to savor the Granada air, inhale the space that is Spain, and enjoy the moments as they gentle evaporate away.

Screw You BREAKFAST GOODS!

Alas, I am alone again, counting down the days until I go to Madrid and whittling away the hours by doing a whole ton of homework. But, since my family has left me once more, I return to the Spain I know. The apartment, the squeaky bed, the awkward exchanges between my señora and myself, the fried food.

I guess the return of family made things easier, hell it made stuff FUN! I was tourguide, translator, and all of it was paid for by someone else! I didnt even clean that much, really. I was no personal slave, trust me. It was a gift to have people who love me and know me back in my life. But, after waiving goodbye to my last visitor, I fought to keep tears from falling down my face. Suddenly, I was alone again, on Gran Via again, with way to many bags and not enough hands, I stumbled onto a bus filled with people who stared at me, and with no one to talk to, I took notice of the glares. At the moment, I was a bag lady, carrying all my supplies of the week back home to Calle Morena, and I felt even more homeless. I knew where I was going, but coming back to the house, the apartment where I have been living for the past two months felt almost as strange as my first night in the place, almost worse because all the excitement was gone.

I guess the reminder of family, of love, was almost a cruel tease. A bit of delicious dessert that is immediately taken away from you, as the tiny flavor still lingers in your mouth. You try to savor it, but it turns into the empty flavor of your mouth before you know it. Here I am, craving home, and I return to the reality that is my life, the normality of my Spanish life. I wake up, at 7.45, get dressed, eat breakfast of cafe con leche and little magdelenas (cupcakes, butter and muffin blending into one unsatisfyingly sweet morning), I walk to class, I sit in composition, I sit in culture, I get another cafe con leche, I return to school, do my emailing and blogging, and then I go to literature, sit for two hours, walk home again for lunch, eat with my señor and penelope, their daughter, take a nap, wake up, walk back to school, use the internet, return home, do homework-read-watch tv with my señora, and go to bed, only to start the day again (sometimes i have art history in the afternoon, or I tutor, I those days I stay at school for lunch). But my life has become routine here, and the change of it took me out of my comfort zone and into a more comfortable one.

This morning, as I sat with my coffee and those damn magdalenas, I realized something. I hate them. I cannot eat them anymore. I do not want to eat them anymore. They are not good for me, they leave me still hungry after I do, and they filled me with the guilt of highly fattening carbohydrates (a war I have been battling, and losing, all my life). They represent Spain to me, right now. I understand them, have developed a method of eating them, know exactly what to expect and how many calories are in each one (about 139). I know them, I get it, but it is not what I want and not what I need. Its how I feel, I understand Spain just enought. Not like an anthropologist studying the culture, but like an outside observer savoring the difference. I see it now, I understand it, but because I am not here for the long run, not willing to accept that magdalenas will be my breakfast forever, I see no need in eating them anymore. They just make me fat. I get it, I see what is different, I see what I am here, I see it, but I will never understand, never grow accustomed to it, especially knowing that I am still going to return.

Clearly, I have begun to grow bitter. But do not get me wrong, it is just one of those mornings, on of those days where I am ready to return, for my GRAND RETURN HOME. But I am still here, still stuffing bready butter in my mouth.


I am sorry for such an angry post, I guess it came out rougher than I meant. I love Spain, do not get me wrong, but today, it is just one of those days, where, thoughts of coming home fill my head and heart wit dizzying joy.

Alas, I have a month, and then who knows when I will return to Spain? It is a country that will always have a piece of my soul, a country that will always represent my time of learning and independance, a country that has taught me not only a language, but life in a way I had never seen. Spain is beautiful, but today, well, I would rather be in Buffalo Grove, chilling with family, going with friends to IHOP. Yes. Sometimes, I must admit, those little mundane things becomes my most vivid dreams.

FAMILY! FRIENDS! VISITORS!!!!

So, I have been serving as faithful tourguide, translator and personal cook for family this week, and in this time I have learned to things,
1. I love my family, and anyplace feels so much more like home with them there.
2. I love Granada, I mean, it is still a gorgeous place...

See, living here you forget, but showing people around, somehow you begin to remember...
We went to the Alhambra, yesterday, and as the sun set over the mountains, and made our way through the Generalife Gardens, our view towering over the majority of the city, took hold of me and shook me. Here I was, living in this place, so beautiful and genuine, and I was taking it for granted. But luckily, having family here, they remind me of how cool and fun it is.

Also, I feel so much better being here. With family to keep me grounded I just feel okay. MEeting the Señora was funny little experience, which consisted of me sitting and talkingwith her, while the other two watched, my every attempt to translate was interrupted with more Spanish from Lola. Ha. Lady loves to talk. Infront of new people. Not so much to me. But oh well.

Outside of that, wandering the streets of Granada has taken on a new element of fun and I am really not wanted anyone to leave me...
Alas, I must be off. But all is well.
miss everyone lots
love everyone lots
me.

Eating Arroz With A Spoon, Not Paella With A Fork

So, today is Saturday, a day of family meals with the kids, in the case of my señora and señor. So, today we had arroz con pollo, which is, essentially, paella minus the ham and seafood. I sat down to a plate of hot, saffrony goodness; rice, chicken, red peppers and artichokes, sitting in a bowl, a thick sauce sticking the pieces together. But there was no fork and knife to cut the huge pieces of cjhicken, just a spoon and bread, to be used to make mouth sized pieces. So, I ate, awkwardly breaking the chicken with the edge of my spoon, and feared that the chicken would slip in the sauce and go flying somewhere in the direction of my señor. Luckily, it did not happen. Nonthless, it was quite the struggle.

I guess, sadly, that is all I have report, nothing very new or exciting here. So...the paella story is the best I can come up with...ha.

Well, I have, as of late, simply been doing homework and living my life here in Spain. I am really just counting down the days until the arrival of my guests, ONE MORE TO GO!! yay.

Miss you all,
love you all
me

Rain, Rain: Go! A! Way!

So, I woke this morning to another dreary day. It has, this week, been pretty dark and cloudy, chilly and blue. The drizzles erupt some what spontanteously, often lasting no more than ten minutes, in turn, leading you to uselessly carry around a moist umbrella the majority of each day. Well, here I am, basking in the Spanish rain.

Wasn´t the rhyme that The Rain in Spain Falls Mainly on the Plain? I live in the mountains!! Why!? Oh Why!?

Well, I guess, in all reality, if the only thing I have to complain about is rain, then, gosh darnit, I sure am lucky. And I admit that.

Here I am traveling the world and I am getting upset with rain. Well, there is always nature, something that I am slowly, with maturity, learning I secretly despise. Don´t get me wrong, I do not say burn all rainforest and destroy all animals! Hell, I love the platypus, the weeping willow, the grasshopper (although only from a safe distance) but I am definitely not outdoorsy (see my entry on the Alpurjarras).

needless to say, I appreciate nature from a safe distance. seeing the sierra nevadas covered in snow on a sunny day, while walking down a paved road filled with cars and people. that is my nature. that nature of people, of modernity, of a borderline bugless land.

Well, in the end, I guess, that is about all I have to say. Just wandering the concrete jungles of Spain, and trying to avoid getting wet.

A Little More Spanish

After my last outburst, I feel the need to talk about something more, well, Spanish.

Today, Wednesday, is my tutoring day, where I go in and chit chat with a seventeen year old Spanish girl in her native tongue then in my own. After an hour intercambio I teach her two younger sbiling English. I believe I have mentioned that they are all incredible in English, and that it is a bit of a feeling inadequate hour for me. Well, today, I ate dinner with them. The family had graciously invited me, I accepted and they made me vegetarian food.

First, to begin, I told them I was a veggie, not Jewish. It was not that I wanted to keep a secret from them, it was that I was too lazy to explain to the family what my kosher meant, and what restrictions it created. I figured it didn´t really matter. I was not hiding it, I was just lazy, as always.

So, I will now tell you all about my experiences eating dinner with another family, I almost feel like I cheated on Lola and Rafael...no, they knew, I informed them, they were not jealous.

So, I had always thought that military family meant cold and rigid, but the family was warm and friendly. The mother of the children, whose name I cannot for the life of me remember, was so unbelievably nice to me. Each time I came over she offered me anything under the sun, and reiterated that if I EVEr need ANYTHHING they were there to help me. Mind you, I literally come in for two hours a week, and they give ME money. So, finally, after a few weeks of class, I ate dinner with them.

A traditional Spanish Omlette, or Tortilla de Patata was prepared, with well, egg and potato. Fancy, flowery bread was placed on the table, along with the omnipresent Manchego cheese, from La Mancha, so therefore of the highest quality, along with empanadas de atun y tomate (tuna and tomato baked yumminess). And finally, a sallad of cut lettuce and homemade salsa de ajo, garlic salsa. Essentially, it was arguably the most yummy dinner ever. I even got the recipe for how to make the salsa (only one problem, I need a mortar and pestle). So, if you cannot tell from my salivating, I clearly liked the meal. It had flavors beyond salt (aka, my favorite flavor, the one I miss most dearly, garlic). It was rich and delicious, and I did not eat too much, so I actually feel good right now.

So, beyond the yummy plates, it was more the feeling that I felt (how redundant!) at the table. I was being served, yes, so I felt a little uncomfortable, but I also felt like although I knew these people very little, they knew me well. They were so friendly, and although the mother spoke little to no English, and we only spoke in Spanish at the dinner table, somehow I felt okay there. It was a feeling of warmth that reminded me of my own family, of the embarassing stories, and even of the little fights that make outsiders feel awkward (ofcourse it happend, by hey, when a family loves, they also fight). Needless to say, I had a great dinner, a real Spanish dinner, with a normal Spanish family, and it left me hungry for my own dinner table, in America, with those that love me.

Let´s Get Political, a Post-Election Post, or How I Didn´t Vote, and Still Believe in Democracy...

I did not vote. I am twenty years old, it was my first election, and I did not vote. To me, it was as much a statement as voting for say...the Green Party (haha..you know who you are!!) You see, in my book, everyone has their drawbacks, and their positive appeals, and I find myself awkwardly arguing for both sides, and feeling a connection to neither.

I am too young to vote Republican. Period. I tried to argue with myself, rationalize McCain´s stances on all things social, but with his choice of Sarah Palin, well, he lost me. I have come to realize, especially living in Spain, that I am a feminist. Ms. Palin represents everything I cannot stand about the view of women: the ´sexy librarian´ ideal.

You see, women have fought long and hard for a right to vote, a right to stand up and be more than just mothers. Do not get me wrong, being a mother is the greatest thing one can do, I hope to be a mom one day, but I also know I can do more. Ms. Palin, although clearly doing more by being the Governer of Alaska, still somehow seems to see herself as merely a mother with a side job. You see, her stance, her appeal, is that she is a ¨hockey mom¨ a pitbull with lipstick...but why lipstick? Why beautify yourself? Why not just be a pitbull, wasn´t Winston Churchill just a bulldog?

Its the sexy librarian thing...What does a sexy librarian represent if not a meek, quiet woman, unassuming in the traditional, 17th century sense, except when she undoes her hair and becomes a sexual entity. The idea that she is only empowered by her sexuality is arguably the most demeaning thing that one can imagine. Just the idea that she was described as that implies her status in a man´s eye. She lowers us-She advertises herself as sexy librarian, whether outwardly or not, and in this way, she hurts us as women. Why not own your empowerment, be a bitch, as Hilary CLinton did?

So, in the end, I couldn´t vote for McCain. Because, let´s face it, he´s old, he could easily die in office, and easily leave the presidency to the beehive hairdo.

And Obama, Barry, as I like to call him. Well, nothing scares me more than such an extreme case of cult of personality. The shirts, the stickers, the chants. Okay, it was mainly the shirts, sold in hipster stores like Urban Outfitters, black ts, with red white and blue block printed images, strickingly similar to World War II era prints of Hitler, or Stalins ever present face in 40s Russia. I just couldn´t. No matter how much I agree with him on all things social, no matter my liberal leanings to pretty much everything, I cannot vote for someone who is soo revered and has really done very little ...


So, in the end. I did not vote.



Congrats to the winner, sorry to the loser. The economy will continue its downward spiral, because it is a cycle, so we shall see how people feel three months from now, when Bush is no where to be blamed.

So, I apologize for gettin´all politicall...but, I needed to rant. I am done now. Hopefully my next entry will be a little funnier..why am I being a Debbie Downer all of a sudden? Sorry guys.

Miss ya all!
Luv,
me.

Another Cafe Con Leche

So, when it comes down to it, I realized that life in Andalucia has become, well, life.

The vacation is long over, and the struggle to maintain sanity period has faded, so now I am comfortably in my groove of life. Yeah. Thats it.

Essentially, my feelings towards every morning are the same as they would be if I were somewhere, well, anywhere else. I love Spain, do not get me wrong, and I wake up everyday reminding myself of the lucky oppurtunity I have to be here, to live here, and to spend someone elses money here ... but the romanticism of Spanish architecture, the colorful charisma of its culture, the endless array of tapas and vino, have become what is...always.

Its really like an alarm clock, at first the ring is powerful, wakes you up immediately, and you are ready to start your day. After a bit, your body gets used to it, you begin to loath it, ache to hit snooze. But, somehow, finally, you grow to accept it. You begin to recognize its sounds in your dreams, and to sometimes wake up before it, so used to what it does to you. That is where I am with Spain. I know my friends, I know my streets, I know just enough Spanish to get by, and I know that soon enough, it will all be over, my metaphoric alarm clock will break, and I will continue to wake up before it, expecting its casual noise.

After more than two months, the idea that my family is coming excites me beyond measure. The reality, or surreality of it all should be quite the momentous occasion. See, I have grown to know Granada, its context, on my own, so the sudden incorporation of all things good and homey will be quite the pastiche of life. See, its a cut and paste moment, a time when two things so seperate and unrelated will suddenly be one, a dada collage of my experiences. Being alone here has helped me grow up, has introduced me not only to new people and lives, but also to myself. Granted, I haven´t grown too much (well maybe width wise...) but I have realized a little bit more about myself, and my own ability to be: to merely exist as is, without people to define me or history to hold me in place. Don´t get me wrong, once again, its more that I am who I am be it in Chicago or Spain, it just took me two months living half way accross the world to realize that fact. Needless to say, the suddenly reincorporation of physical entities that represent love and care (that means you Sveta and Jenka!) is something that I am really excited to see and know again. After all this independance, it will be quite the feeling to see what my life REALLY is, what I am still and will always be, Liza.


i am excited. so happy. so nervous. and so unbelievably joyous to see the union of my home now, my little nook in the sierra nevadas, with the people who define and refine me, my family.


Sorry, for the deep jibber jabber, its just my feelings right now.

I´ll try to tell a funnier story next time.

Sevilla, Or Really Pretty But Nothing to Do

So, I went to Sevilla.

And it was pretty.

I went to the third largest cathedral in the world, the largest gothic cathedral period.

I went to a plaza that honored all the parts of Spain.

I went to the historic Jewish quarters and took a picture of a statue of Don Juan.

I watched a modern dance performance to ´Such Great Heights´ by the Postal Service.

And I admired the colors of the city, a spectrum of oranges and yellow that stung against the cloudy Autumn skies.

Sevilla was beautiful, a romantic city on the Guadalvivir, sitting pretty as the fourth largest city in Spain. But when it came down to it, it was not too, well busy with things to do. We read our guidebooks, were taken to the most tourist parts, and then found ourselves with a lot of extra time to, sit on the banks? Its the Spanish lifestyle, lots of coffee drinking and sitting. And a siesta. It is now what I am used to and I am a little nervous for when I have to leave and rturn back to a day that doesnt take a four hour break in the middle for a nappy-poo.



All in all, Sevilla was a great city. Filled with unbelievable architecture and colorful culture that can be attributed to the strong Flamenco heart that beats in its chest. The main street was lined with modern, black and white photos of Flamenco dancers, and ever store sold Flamenco related attire. It was a zesty city, one of vibrant spirit and pizazz. It was fun, beautiful, incredibly cheap, and there were Starbucks!

In the end. I enjoyed it. I cannot say I did much, but I love being there and experiencing it.

England, Or Like taking a Sip of Regular Pepsi when all you want is a Coke Zero.

So, after of three days in Amsterdam, the three of us boarded a train to London, the city of cities, well atleast in England.

First off, you have to remember, I have been living in a nation where reading the newspaper is about as challanged as doing a New York Times Crossword Puzzle, (a Monday, but a NYT one nontheless). Arriving in a nation that ACTUALLY spoke English, was, well mindblowing.

I was standing in line for coffee in the airport, and the man in front of me orded a salad with an accent, probably from Spain or Italy, Iwould guess. ANyways, he was understood, but nontheless had an accent. Suddenly, I realized that although I was in a nation that spoke my language, I was his equal, an accented foreigner. When it my turn to order, I became nervous, said coffee and while I did get the hot cup of deliciousness, it was more difficult than going to the Starbucks in Chicago.

The accent in London is comprehensible, but it all depended on the person. I realized Irish accents were actually more comprehensible, but also, it depended. All in all, people still speak differently, and although it was the same langugae, sometimes I could swear it was something alltogether different.

I guess that was the general London experience, it was heartbreakingly similar to a large American City, namely New York, maybe a little bit of Chicago. There were more Starbucks than I could believe, McDonalds, and Subways, and Burger Kings. There were people eating sandwiches, and more people eating sandwiches. There was pie, AND significantly less bakeries, Seven Eleven Type conviniences stores that were open 24 hours and that offered a variety of drinks. There was English! Everywhere! The signs! The Museums!

But alas, it was a facade. England is not America, and people still dressed better. People still were more harsh. Customer service was significantly lower. And people still had accents.

My experience in London was of the utmost touristy kind. I went to Picadilly Circus, Trafalgar Square, Buckinham Palace, took pictures infront of the guards while making silly faces. We wandered around town, aimlessly. I went to the National Gallery, admired there amazing collection of pretttyyy much everything. Went to the British Museum and marvled at the Rosetta stone. Went to a pub, got a drink, ate a meat pie. I had fish and chips. I had a lot more sandwiches.

But, all in all, I guess what I missed out on was really seeing London. On the one day I was by myself in the city, my friends had other plans, I went to the National Gallery and then wandered the streets of Soho. I got lost, on purpose, and found my way home. Meandered through the streets, packed densely with Brits and lost tourists, I stumbled upon the Fabric (store) District, the Gay (and sleezy store) District, and later, the Diamond District. It was a drizzly Sunday afternoon, and I just people watched.

The style in London is different, more punk rock, dirtier, grittier, and yet, more refined. Color is not what is important in clothes, its fit, shape, form, idea. Almost any man under 35 wore skinny jeans, and blouses billowed from underneath warm leather bomber jackets. Scarves hung around the necks of everyone. EVERYONE. Tall boots with pantyhose and shorts were the style of the moment, and a fusion of Boho style with Banana Republic type refinement would be a good description.

My goal was to make it to Smithfield market, a raucaus market of flea type, with everything and anything. I finally pulled out my map, made my way over, and arrived, only to see an empty Smithfield, probably closed because of the weekend, the cold, the rain, or because I am just not very lucky when it comes to the stupid little things. Needless to say, I turned myself around and walked over to a nearby grocery, purchased fruit pastilles (sold in tube form, its a gummy candy I can enjoy for only 170 calories in the entire package...which really isnt that bad when you think about it) and walked home.

Well, London, we had a good time. I will continue my stories later...but now, off to class.

On Amsterdam. Continued

So, what did I do in Amsterdam beyond the walking around?

More walking around. We spent the majority of our days wandering the streets, and canals, of Amsterdam. What I did not realize was that Amsterdam is arguably one of the most beautiful cities I have ever seen. From the picturesque canals, to the lanky houses, squished together. The weather was brisk but fresh, not the cool air that chills you to the bone, but the cold air that you get used to, the one that turns your face a flattering shade of crimson.

We went to the tulip market, went to the Anne Frank House, went to the Van Gogh Museum, when to the Rijksmuseum. WE ate once in a restaurant, and had a delicious pizza.

What I learned in Amsterdam:
Rembrandt is arguably the greatest painter ever.
Dutch Langugae is hilarious.
The Anne Frank house Museum has pretttty much nothing in it. But it was depressing nontheless.
Van Gogh led a pretty dreary life.
Tulips are cool.

ha. Anyways. I had a great time.


Also, I bought ticketsand I am coming home, from Barcelona on the 18th of December! SO EXCITED!!!!

Three Nights in The Red Light District

So, I went to Amsterdam, visited Leiden briefly, and went to the Red Light District, I am not ashamed to say. Although I did not purchase any services, I found my freeloading more socially acceptable and emotionally satisfying.

What I am trying to say is, I laughed at the prostitutes. I guess, when it comes down to it, the entire experience was a strange one. Our hostel was located in the red light disrtict, more on the edge of it really, on a street lined with bars, from British style pubs to gay bars with not so subtle names. But, when we looked outside the window to our room, a window that faced the back end of the building, we could see the warm red glow of prostitution.

I have always considered myself a feminist, no bones about it, yet somehow, in Amsterdam, I wasn´t offended. I was more bemused, the silliness of it all. See, it was not the sad, lonely hooker in the back alley, it was the lady, cahttering on her phone while standing infront of a window wearing underwear, in a brightly lit, populated area. The casual air made the entire expereince, simalteanously less and more unsettling. This was it, they were selling themseves, and I obnoxiously oogled them with no desire to purchase. I could but help feel strange for these women, who openly objectified themselves to the poiunt where even I felt they were more like items in a vending machine rather than people. It was sad, it was funny, it was weird. It was like a human zoo, stop, look, judge, leave. Sometimes you would see people go in and out, that was stranger, but when you just stopped and looked, you realized the weirdness of it all. How these women do it, I have no idea.

Also, I did not realize that the Red Light District in fact does have red lights everywhere, and the glowing neon red with now forever be associated in my mind with hookers. Dutch hookers (although I read that only about 5% are actually Dutch).

Well, beyond the red light district, Holland offered many a great thing,
1, an endless supply of Stroopwafels, both delicious and evil with their very caloric, buttery goodness.
2, an endless supply of funnily named beers, and while Grolsch was gross, Jupiler tasted nothing like a planet.
3, coffee houses, where I actually just drank coffee and quietly watched when people lit cigarettes and smoked, nothing really exciting, just like a Starbucks, but with a little more pot smoke.


Holland itself, is, as we realized upon entering the Centraal Station in Amsterdam, the land of Giants. We went from Lilliputian Spain to GIANT Holland, the tallest people in the world, Kailey later informed me. Seriously, these people were giants. And while they had similar physical characteristics to the people of London, they were far better looking. So, tall, handsome giants. On bicycles. Oh the bicycles, everyone on bikes, dogs running alongisde bikes, well dressed businessmen riding to work on bikes, babys sitting in little bike seats, couples biking on one bike, usually the girl balancing precariously on the back of the bike. Bikes. Bikes. Bikes.

And trams.

So, unlike America, or most nations where there is only one method of transportation to watch out for when crossing the street, Holland had three, and in turn, crossing the street became really the art of darting death in all its high and low velocity forms. The bigger roads, which had special lanes for bikes, trams and cars, became like little knots of coiling and intertwining lanes, crisscorssing and confusing the foreigners who were actually using their two feet to get accross.

Alright, I will continue my stories later, but now off to class.
Love and miss you all.
me

Back from the Break, with a newfound appreciation for all things comfortable and homey

So, I will soon begin a tireless, excrutiatingly dull description of my mild adventures in London and Amsterdam, but I will begin with the end. My return.

It was weird, is weird, coming home to Spain, something mildly comforting in knowing the streets, having a real, non pod bed, knowing prices, places, and the weather. And yet, so excruciatingly difficult to return to a naition with a language that I have been struggling to learn, and to return to a nation that is simaltaneously my home, and yet not.

Returning from London was both nice...things are cheaper! its sunnier! I know my way around! But also just reminded me of how long and far away my true home is. SPANISH! Spanish! Spanish! You´re not my real mom! You dress tacky! Where is the GOOD BIG MUGS OF COFFEE!!!!????

Needless to say, I am back, disoriented, confused, exausted, excited. And still, missing home more than ever.

I love you all, miss you all.
Love,
Me

Three Solid Minutes

I have three solid minutes to write something. I have made it to London after a few days in Amsterdam, staying in a hostel deep in the heart of the red light district. Quite less scandolous than one would imagine.

Amsterdam, and the Netherlands altogether, is quite a beautiful place. Wonderful, really. The smell of pot floating through the air and the delicious taste of stroopwafels...yum.

Well, I am in London now, and thanking the plummeting economy to a great exchange rate.

Sorry, not much time, I hope to write more upon my return to Spain.

Love You ALL!!!

I am going to London and Amsterdam...and it will be chilly. chilly. fun!

Hey everyone, now that I am done with my entries about Morocco I am leaving. Again.

Honestly, at this point, my life is surreal, all the travel, all the foreign languages, its really incredible. So tomorrow, I am off to London, and then Amsterdam, and then returning to London for a few more days. My semana blanca should be amazing, although I have little to nothing planned.

I mean the basics are down, hotel stay, buses to and fro respective airports, and flights, but no actual day plans. That is my research now, the fun stuff.

Honestly, I am extremely excited to plan and to go to a country where I can read the newspaper...quickly! Woo!!

And I here there a big mugs of coffee, and pale people, and all the things that I am used to! But, alas, it will be chilly, much chillier than here, and it will be pricey, so I may go hungry for a few days.

Just kidding.

Well, honestly, I am just excited, post plan, I will post information, and more thoughts but for now I am just a bundle of energy. Also, any reccomendations for my journey? things I MUST try or do?

Miss you all!
Love Love Love,
me

Cats, Cous Cous and Creepy Cloaks, PART III

Let me, finally explain my title.
Cats: EVERYWHERE you went, looked around, stumbled into, you would see cats, kittens, felines, wandering the little pathways, sitting in corners of markets, all seemingly homeless and pretty hungry. There were no dogs, none. I literally saw zero, but in Morocco, cats abound, and one man was trying to sell a tiny, adorable kitten for 1 dirham (ten euro cents) although we could easily have grabbed one for free.

CousCous: AKA, the food of Morroco, was all served in a tangine, steaming veggies, yellow cous cous or potatotes, maybe a little meat, and all surprisingly flavorless. Bland, one might say. Salt was a must. I came in thinking that Morocco would be fool of exotic flavors, but while the life was wild, the food was BORING! No spice, no pizazz, but it was brightly colored. One thing I must say, Breakfast was delicious at The Dreams hotel, I ate what could be described as a cool, slight burnt crepe, that was used as toast. I loved it. I also will probably never eat it again.


Creepy Cloaks: A traditional outfit for the Morrocan people is what appears to be a brown cloa almost like a monk´s attire, but fitted with a KKKesque hoodie. Usually elderly Morrocan people would wear these, and seeing an elderly Morrocon man, wrinkly and aged, hobble down tiny alleyways in a brown body covering cloak was quite the eerie image. The would not look pleasentaly if you made eye contact, which I tried to avoid, but did make a few times, and a shiver shot down my spine seeing their eyes judge my foreign attire.

Now, onto a description of the FINAL city in my journey, Chef Cheouen. BLUE! WHITE! SMELLY! OLD! ADORABLE! We were led into one of those mountain towns, vaguely reminiscent of the mountain towns of Spain, but instead of being the clean adorable white, they were paints in matching airy blues! Unreal, gorgeous, fun! Of course they were still dirty, donkeys roamed the streets, tiny cats meowed for food to avoid starvation, mysterious feces laid uncleaned in the walk ways, but it was still BEAUTIFUL! We saw the blue powders, chalks, being sold to paint the towns, bags and bags of hues meant to mix and colorize the village. We bartered, I bought a few things, and we ate more bland Moroccan food! It was fun, and it was cleaner, so I enjoyed it more.

I will try to post pictures tomorrow, but alas, I forgot my Camera.

Love you all! Miss you all!!
XOXOX,
me

Cats, Cous Cous and Creepy Cloaks, PART II

So, there I was, in a nation so unlike my own, so unlike the one I came from, wandering the tiny narrow alley ways of Tetuon. Seeing a REAL Morrocan market.... So what was THAT like, you may ask...well, let me tell you...

Instead of small stores, the ancient walls had what seemed like closet sized cubby holes where merchants would set up shop, selling anything and everything they could. First we walked through the food emporium, a North African Dominick´s, with bowls of potatos, oranges, pomengranites, apples, and various other greens, often with many a fly relaxing on the goods, spread on the ground like a picnic. The produce section was arguably the cleaner portion. When it came to the butcher shop, well, it was quite the experience. If I was in the market for buying a lambs head, well, I had found my heaven. Mm...fresh lamb face. How about my favorite, Chickens? Well, I had two choices, live and fresh, or dead and semi-decapitated. I have cooked chicken many a time, dealt with the bird carcus gracefully, grown immune to the pale pink flesh, but somehow these bodys were unsettling. The head was partially attached, and the neck bone exposed to the world, often with some sort of insect crawling in and out of the spine. The two varieties were often sitting next to eachother. And although I know chickens are dumb, I still felt bad that the two versions were infront of the other, almost like a example of what the live ones would become, reminding them that they too will soon be eaten. Flys abound, and the odor was not of the poultry section in Jewel, but instead the rotting smells of old meat, urine and animal feces. Alternated with the clean scent of mint and parsley and the various spices sold in the market. Much like any grocery store, there was a kitchen accesories stores, selling plates, cups, tea pots, and TVs, in the similar, back alley way like set up.

Well, that was our tour of Tetoun, and we left shaken by the reality of Morocco, scared of the following day. We boarded our bus to the Dreams Hotel, an AMAZING modern hotel better than any place I had stayed at since I have come to Spain. .we watched David Letterman on a flat screen TV, we ate a dinner of kebabs and rice, and we slept on clean, new beds. Talk about contrast.

The next morning, I took a long, hot shower, something borderline impossible to do in Spain, and boarded another bus to CHef Cetohtsbntginstn...okay, I don´t exactly remember the name, but to a small, mountain town where I would see a cleaner, bluer Morocco....

Alas, I have to go to class...so I will continue later.

Love you ALL,
ME

Cats, Cous Cous and Creepy Cloaks, my twenty four hours (maomeno) in Morroco

Yes, you heard right, twenty four hours in Morroco. Marruecos, en español. You see, the first day started off a bit unfortunately, and due to rain, wind, and cloud( or, some could say, G-d), all boats leaving Algeciras, España to the costa of Afrika were canceled. We were supposed to leave at about five pm on Friday, instead we left Saturday at noon. In turn, I spent a night on the coast of Spain, in a cruddy hotel, with a hole in the bathroom wall and a TV from 1973. The shower was more like a really tall faucet, and the floor was covered in ants. The weather in Spain was terrible, the wind so strong that literally, some of the thinner, weaker girls were blowing away, and the windows shook all night with what seemed like hurricane strength gusts. The next morning, we would awake to see fallen palm trees scattering the streets and Spanish citizens roaming in confusion after a night of powerful weather.



So what did we, college students, do to pass that time!? Mix Sangria and cheap Champagne, talk about other students in our program, giggle at are rudimentary knowledge of Spanish culture and ignore the dire state of our impromptu hotel accomodations!



The next day, after spending WAY to much time in a town that Rick Steve´s travel book described as a town ¨best for leaving¨ we finally boarded a rickety beast of a boat destined for Morocco. Although it was supposed to take forty-five minutes, it took about twice that time, slowly drifting across the choppy water and moving my stomach to nausea. A few vomited, and periodically one could hear the sounds of fellow passengers dry heaving, but I stayed strong, and deboarded shaken but still full of predeparture toast and café.



So, we arrived, in Spain. Yes, in Ceuta, a tiny town in Africa that is still part of the Spanish nation. We boarded a bus and finally arrived in Marreucos, many hours after we were supposed to. Gone were Spanish language things, well at least some of them, in came the scribbly cursive of Arabic script. Gone were the sexily dressed grandmas of Spain, in came the head scarfs and cloaks common in Morroco. Gone were the modern amenities of a European nation, and in came the dirty reality of a third world country. We were in Africa. But it seemed more like the Middle East to me.



We did not go to Tangier. We did not go to Marrakesh. We did not go to Fez. We did not go to Casablanca. Instead, we went to two smaller towns, Tetuon and something with a Che....Needless to say it was a bit off the beaten path. So what did my trip include? well, judging from the title of this entry (something I had been formulating and editing since my arrival in Morocco, something I think captured the essence of my little trip) lots of homeless felines, an array of colorful powders, lots of men, and a lot of feeling out of place.



Sometimes, it takes a trip to Morroco to remind you that Spain, although nothing like America when dipping down into the essence of a national cutlure, is still some much closer to what I would describe as home. Morroco was more muslim than I imagined. There were little to no women walking the streets, a stray older lady would pass, but every cafe or restaurant we passed would be filled with men, and only men. The majority of women wore headscarves, and although I never dress sexy, I found my own outfit entirely inappropriately flashy in the country.

Well....I think I gotta go, I will try to post more as soon as possible. Sorry about the abrupt ending.

love love love,
me

Hungry in Analucía

Well, its Yom Kippur, the day of atonment for the Jewish people. Here I am, in Spain, eating, well, nothing.

After a difficult, but apparently, successful explaination to my Señora the basis of the day and its one major element (fasting) I am sitting here, foodless and, well, darnit, a little hungry. My señora took pity on me, and made me the largest mug of coffee this morning that I have ever seen in Spain. I spilled half of it out because I felt like it was a little , like, cheating. But, yes, I had coffee, in order to avoid a headache. Okay?

Anyways, its been different here.


You see, last year, Yom Kippur was a breeze. A Saturday, I believe, I sat around with family, went to synogogue, watched food network, and voila, time to break the fast. Alas, here, not see easy. First and formost, EVERYONE is eating. Okay, not everyone, but it seems like in each class, at least on student is munching on something. Second off, I am BORED. There is very little to do here besides eat. You can walk around, and then walk around some more.. So...I am HUNGRY. Also, I pass about seventeen thousnd little bakeries, selling delicious baked good, with people sitting outside, drinking cafes, while I walk around, and I cannot join them.

Its much harder to do all this here than back home, but oh well, a challange is a challange, and I will do it. Whatever.

Alright, outside of that, nothing new, nothing exciting.

Love you all, miss you lots


PS HAPPY BIRTHDAY LEÑA!!!

Pobrecita!

The Pobrecita I am referring to in the title of this post is Spain, I am actually unsure whether it is a feminine or masculine noun, but judging by the A at the end, I will assume, for the sake of this title, that Spain, is in fact, a lady. A poor little lady.

So why do I exclaim ¨¨Pobrecita¨ towards the nation I currently call my home? Is it the floundering economy? The lack of respect when it comes to European nations? The violence of ETA and turmoil in Pais Vasco? Nahh...its the coffee man, its always the coffee.

Well, here is a little thing, I was thinking about earlier today, when walking through the city of Pomegranite. Café, in english, is a classy little coffee shop, something Parisian, ideal. If one was to say, ¨I went to a café in Europe,¨ the image of a large plaza, bird flying about, old people walking in pairs, maybe a little rain falling, pops in the mind, doesn´t it?

Come on. It does. The idea, the romantic idea of a café, your tiny mug of coffee, your sense of emotional fulfillment. Its there, I know it is.

Well, what if I were to say, ¨I went to a cafeteria in Europe¨? All of a sudden, you imagine, your lunchlady, a pepto colored tray, hair nets, stacks of premade cheeseburgers heated under red lamps. Alas, in Spain, a café IS a cafeteria. And, so, it is done.

Well, what I am getting at here is that Spain got the short end of the stick, somehow, English defined café, a french word, as the classy European coffeeshop, and caféteria as, well, worse than a diner. Ouch.

Maybe its inherent bias, Don´t we all look at the French to be the creators and perpetrators of all things sensual (here, I do not mean SEXUAL, although that works too, I mean Art! Philosophy! Fashion! TASTE!)? Or it may be a fluke, a coincidence, a misnomer that developed into a term, that led to a permanent bias for anyone taking in the cultura of Spain.

However it happend, it did. And now, when I go grab a café con leche (which itself, significantly less present in the US economy taste better and is more user friendly than the ominpresent espresso of Italian descent), I am sitting not in a café but infact a cafeteria, without lunch lady Doris, but in a grand plaza, with all the old people and birds I can handle.

So, I pity Spain, not because of real reasons, but because somehow, their coffee shops are lost in translation.

Hey, Its Getting Cold

So, its finally getting a bit chilly here in Spain, dark and gloomy! Woo!!!

Well, here I am...chillin in Spain. Another day, another nothingness.

Really, I´ve got nothing to say today, just been in class and chilling here.

I miss you guys loads, I hope tomorrow will be more eventful.

love,
me

On The Ham Situation

Spain is the land of ham. Yes. Delcious pig. The one four legged animal I do not eat.

SO, I came in knowing deep down that this would be difficult. However, I did not realize the extreme feelings of the Spanish toward the little Oinker.

Ham is everywhere. Jamon Cerrano is essentially the national food, and pig legs hang in kitchens throughout Spain, in grocery stores and in restaurants. In one restaurant, Pig legs serve as edible ceiling decoration, hanging down like twinkly lights from the sky, displaying the flavor of Spain. I´ve seen these pig legs discarded on the streets, maybe eaten after some sort of raucous celebration, pig legs chilling on kitchen tables, pig legs carving competinions on tv. Yes, solid pig legs, hooves still attached, are a motif here in Spain.

When I tell fellow students I do not eat jamon, the next question is a shocked, mouth gaping ¨What Do You Eat, then?¨ staring, eyes wide. How is it possible to survive without eating SPains, seemingly, only meat.

There is chicken, rarely, usually on weekends, essentially special occasions in my house, there is TUNA, a constant flavor which luckily I adore because it seems to be the next after ham in popularity, and there is cheese. Not a meat, but a replacement for what should be there.


Two days a week my señora packs me a lunch, bocadillos (sandwichs on french bread) that consist of cheese or chicken, and nothing else. She sat me down two days ago and apologized for the lack of variety of fillings in my bocadillos. She explained,¨Ï would pack you something different, but you don´t eat ham! I could make you so many more things if you did, I could put ceranno, chorizo, salchicias, deli ham..etc. etc.(I think she listed more, but I cannot remember right now) But all I can make you are chicken breast or cheese sandwiches ¨ She was almost upset. I told her i didnt mind, I love chicken, I love cheese. I´m okay. But still, its the ham, man, that hurts her....

So, here I am, surrounded by the one meat I can´t eat ( even the hamburgers usually contain jamon!) eating around it in free tapas and replacing my meat intake with carb carb carbs!! So, that is what its like, living in a place where ham is king, and beef is practically as common as lamb (which means I have had it once).


Man I miss chicken.

And everyone at home>! Love you all!

Thoughts, Theories, Ideas

When it comes to being a foreigner, detached from family and friends, I have found myself gripping to my own self image and struggling to maintain it in such a different environment. Its so mysterious to me how life can go on at home without my presence and how I can maintain life here without those who have defined me and helped me. Its truly bizarre.

I guess, at this point, I am accepting reality and embracing it. Its hard some mornings, waking up to familiar faces who don´t understand you. As one of my friends here was saying, you can´t explain yourself beyond ¨¨Me siento mal¨ I feel bad. Its not a sickness, nor should it be treated as such. Its the pangs of growth, my mental muscles worn from stretching and working in ways they´ve never had to before. I sleep. Too much, and I am trying to change that, force myself to walk the streets, breath the life of Spain.

Today, I woke up late, and stumbled out onto Camino De Ronda, the big street by where I live. I walk past if everyday and I truly believe it gives you one of the best views of the city, you can see the enormous sierra nevadas in the distance, the Alhambra high on its peak overlooking the town, houses upon houses, layered up the mountain, and directly infront, the dirty streets of a city. A wall of grafitti, a empty space where bums seem to live, a train station that runs the rails dirty. Its beautiful and its my Granada. Life is here, changing, forming, climbing up the mountains, stumbling down to the dirt of the land infront of me.

I sat down at one of my favorite benches and started to take notes on my feelings, (I have essentially regurgitated them onto this blog) and I realized something, across from me had sat a middle aged man. His skin and hands brown, a dirty blue shirt, rusty corodory pants, a plastic bag filled with god knows what. In the middle of this beatiful Sunday scene, families walking their dogs, old couples strolling after church, there I sat accross from this man. Clearly homeless, his expression not one of pain but of blankness, of numbness to the world. And here I am complaining about my experiences...

What it comes down to is this is such an unreal moment, one so luxurious you almost forget how lucky you are. So, I decided, I have to take notice, look around, feel it. I have to take Granada into my body because if I don´t, I will truly be a brat. I am so thankful for what I have, and I hope to take these moments and NEVER forget them, and to help them teach me who I am and what it is to be alive.

Its an experience and sometimes experiences hurt, they cut, they bruise, they shame, they embarass, but they build you. And, to be honest, being here is unreal. I am here to see another world, to see a place so unlike my own, to learn a langugae so rapid fire and passionate, my chill Northern heart still struggles to comprehend. Spain is unlike me, so unlike me, and I am taking it in and embracing that although we are different, I am here to learn, to see, to feel, to hopefully to understand, at least a little, of what it is to be Spanish.



WOW: sorry, that was REALLY cheesy. I APOLOGIZE, its just a weird moment, and I felt I should write about it. I hope you all understand.

I love you and miss you all....

Another Day, Another Blog

So, how was Cordoba?

I DID go to Maimodones´statue, and the old synogogue. It was one of three that remained after the Reconquista, and it was really weird seeing it covered in Moorish decoration. Seeing the old Hebrew letterring, something that had survived so many years of secrecy, was something so unreal. It almost stood as a representation of a my culture, something that had gone through so much, and yet, even though it may be crumbling, it survives. (sorry, for the lil jew power bit...hehe)

We saw the famous Mezquita of Cordoba, which had a cathedral set in the middle, also, so strange to see the covering up of religious history by others, seeing this erasure of history, recovered and retold. And yet, by erasing one history, you are creating another, so restoring the old Mosque would destroy the Baroque building.

I will try to post pictures later, I forgot my chord!! sorry!!!

On To Cordoba!

So, tomorrow I am taking a day trip to Cordoba, my tests are finally over and I can BREATH!!!

Woooh!

So, life in Spain. Well, what they don´t tell you about Cafe Con Leche is that eventually you get SICK OF IT AND JUST WANT A GIANT MUG OF COFFEE...so, for week, some classmates and I have been craving mugs of it.

Well, lo and behold, about twenty minutes from my school, they open a Dunkin donuts, A REAL LIVE DUNKIN DONUTS!!! WITH BIG COFFEES!! See, the thing is, its nice soaking up the foreign country, but damnit, you miss what you knew, what you were used to, and ginat mugs of coffee.

So, I went to Dunkin Donuts, and I liked it, I don´t care what anyone thinks. It looked just like any DD, same pictures of coffee and bagels and unsatisfactory donuts. Its an amazing place, really. truly amazing. Ha.

Outside of that, well, I am alright, nothing exciting. I spent my past few days reading, or writing, or a little of both. So, no knew ideas...still trying to figure out the whole thing, but if you are interested...he has a website.

http://www.elninodelaspinturas.com/

I´´m Using The Time I paid For...JUSTFYI

I am working a lot here in Spain, surprisingly. I only took a fifteen minute nap!! And I only slept about four hours yesterday. With two papers (en español) and a test tomorrow, I have been quite the busy bee. Studying, running from closing internet cafe to cheaper internet cafe, and also, working. Yes. Remember that job I mentioned, well I went.

By job, I mean, one hour a week where I tutor two small children in English. Bubbly Pilar and BookWorm Gonzalo. They´re a cute pair, I think 9 and 11 respectively. Their English is significantly better than my Spanish, so we try to work on advanced things, like adjectives. I essentially make up my own MadLibs, which they enjoy dearly. I realized that I have no command over kids, or atleast, I am not trying to. See, they are little and I do not want to yell at them to focus, I want to maintain that sense of coolness that I hold so dear, so I let them distract eachother. Yes, within one hour, they will jump off topic about seven times. I mean, I know I´m not much of tutor, never pretended to be, but its still surprising how much kids can like you for just being there. Seriously, kids want to like you, I do very little, and yet, they tell me how awesome I am all the time. Its quite the ego boost, until you realize they like every one, and were born in 1998. oof. I´m old.

So, that is that.

Also, on the graffiti forefront...
Sometimes you should do research before you find yourself with your foot stuck soo deep within your mouth that you choke. I was talking to a fellow student at school the other day and he bragged, ¨el niño is a family friend.¨
¨El niño?¨ I asked, looking politely at him, thinking of the infamous weather pattern I wrote an article about when I was seven.
¨Yeah, the infamous grafitti artist of Granada. The one that actually gets paid by the city¨
¨Oh that´s cool, I didn´t realize there was a famous one¨ My face flushed red. All my theories, all confused and jumbled now that I know that it is infact the city, the government, that higher cultural authority that pays for the graffiti of Granada. Wow. The irony.

Of course, not ALL the graffiti is El Niños, my favorite work does not contain his name, at least I have yet to find it, but with this new information, I am realizing that jumping to conclusions leads to a state of dissarray. And that there has always been and will always be patrons of the arts, no matter what the art is.

Alright, that´s call for now. Miss you all. Love you all. Off to study about Gypsys and Flamenco DANCE!!!

A Brief Post

Sorry guys, I have a lot of work due this week, so I have no real news or interesting thoughts on my experience as of yet. The problem with turning this blog into a traveloque-book is that it would be sooo boring. Of course you guys are interested in it, you KNOW me, but other than that, well, who cares?

Anyways, Spain right now is well, settling around me like the clouds around the mountains, fogging my view of reality. I know the Stock Market is A´plummeting and that everyone has gone CRAZY, but I am here, drinking cafe con leche and worrying about papers. I feel bad being so distant and in such a pricey place. A real brat.

I miss you all and hope everyone is doing okay!!

Also I hope everyone had a wonderful Jewish New Year! Shanah Tovah!

I did not eat apples and honey, but I did eat chocolate for a sweet new year...haha

Continuing on my theory

Its more of an art thing, art has been lifted to high culture and taken from the people to the museums and now, we, as people, in response, have brought it down into our world. Where was art in the past? In churches, in the places where we visited everyday.

look at hip hop and slam poetry. The poorer levels of American culture brings art to the streets, with graffiti, with poetry. Its undeniable that hip hop and slam poetry are so closely intertwined, and that their roots burst from the poorer levels of urban American culture, a response to the elevation of poetry out of the hands of the average and into the arms of the elite.

In some ways, when looking at the Graffiti of Spain, one sees themes that run the gamut of Spanish culture. Imagery of Arabian style building feferencing its moorish past, African faces, the new immigrants of Spain, and a repeated image of the swastika crossed out, as much a response to Anti Nazism as it is to Anti Facism, as Spain was under a dicatorship well past the time of the of Mussolini and Hitler. Images of Roman numerals, possible a reference to the time before, the time of Roman Catholic Rule, the golden age of the Spanish Empire, and many references to violence and sex, themes that run throughout any culture, but more boldly in Spain.

I will try to photograph and analyze this graffiti and its place not only with in Spain, but its literal location in regards to Granada.... that is my goal.... let´s hope it works.

Allllllright,

now, beyond my lil thesis I got working here,
I am doing alright, the rain is still falling and the chilly breeze has finally woken me out of my slumber. The past few days I have been feeling like a zombie, walking the streets but not living in them. My homesickness had really entered my soul and ruptured my spirit, shaking me to the core and making me act in ways I usually do not. I am now back, normal, or atleast normalized, and drinking a little cafe con leche to perk me up.

There is something inherently romantic about rainfall, something I love deeply. While walking past my favorite mural, overlooking the city of Granada, I could see not only the Alhambra surrounded by gentle rain clouds, but the rolling Sierra Nevadas, being softly caressed by the pillowy clouds of misty rain. The breeze did nothing but to shake me awake, alive, aware, here I am. Living in the place to beautiful and yet, so dirty.

I have had many people here, fellow students, discuss there dirtiness of the city, see it as a downfall to the beauty of Granada. Maybe its me, or my personal taste, but I feel that a city should be dirty. The grime is closely related to life, that dirt says experience, says freedom, says ¨hey, this is what it is, we´re not going to clean it up for you, because then we would be lying.¨To me, the dirtiest parts of Granada are the most beautiful, why? Becuase they are LIVED in. Yes, the Alahambra is amazing, its idyllic location and decoration, its history, its everything, must be cleaned to be appreciated, but when it comes to a city, I like dirt. I like edge.

uff. Its been a while, no?

Well, sorry for the brief interruption in writing, I guess I fell of the horse, but I have dfixed my saddle and am back on for the long haul. Its been raining all day today, that light, misty rain that just covers everything gently and without a care. Its so sublte the rain, something I find surpising, and before you know it, the tiny, almost misty drops, have soaked you to the bone.

Its gotten cooler here, the weather less mild and more cold. I am happy about that but I just miss being home. The home withdrawl symptoms are peaking uop, I miss home and I miss everyone. A lot.

On to more exciting things,

So, as I mentioned earlier, the streets here are covered in graffiti, something I am trying to analyze in relation to the city of Granada. The graffiti here is so extremely descript and layered, bold colors, heavy lines and imagery that brings alive the streets.

So, I have begun to think about Spain´s culture, and why Granada would have such a bustling Graffiti culture. Well, here is my theory. Please note, this is a theory, tear it up if you like, it is just my opinion....

I was speaking with my señora´s daughter and we spoke for a while about the Spanish Culture. What it comes down to is that in Europe and Spain, the idea of culture is so much more defined, the elitism much more extreme than in the United States, maybe an outgrowth of years of culture definition and rigidity. It seems that all things culture, Art, Music, Theater, Film, have been refined to such standards that in many ways the Art of Spain has been taken away from the control of Spainairds.

Whereas in the United States there are constant influx of immigrants and our culture is effected by that influx, from the amount of bagels there are to the fact that I am learning Spanish, it seems that immigrants do define and redefine our culture. Even Art or Music or Theater has a more family friendly approach, with direct and clear drives to draw in the average American (atleast, while working at the Art Institute, I worked specifically in trying to draw in families to something that many would argue is not a very family friendly insistution. Bringing art to everyone is something that still seems relatively American in definition.)

In Spain, where immigration is still more minimal, and where the culture has been forcefully refined since 1492 when the Reyes Catolicos enforced the Christian Culture on Granada, the idea of Spain Culture and High Art is Defined and Elite. Take, for example, Bull Fighting, here it is, 2008, at time when violence is frowned up and yet, in Spain, not only does every city have a Plaza Del Toros, they still have bull fights, and although they are not as popular as soccer games and the society is split on its ethics, it is still on national television, and matadors are on entertainment shows. It is their culture, and they are proud, and I have absolutely no issue with that, please do not take offense to this. A nation, with such a clear culture and lifestyle should hold on to those elements, because no one should be white washed, ever. The only drawback, it seems, is that now, there are new immigrants, ones struggling to maintain a place in the Spanish Culture, and with its economic problems, there are Spanish citizens with Spanish blood who still maintain a distinct feeling of being an outsider in a culture in which they were raised. I feel, that is is these people, who create this art, who bring back music and paint to the streets, who readopt what was once their and renew for modern time, using spray paint and bricks. This is my theory, and I hope to prove it.

i hope you all understand what i am trying to say, its a bit conviluded, but i hope to use this and my experiences in spain to address and understand the graffiti art. i wanted to go to spain to learn about art in context, and i can truly say that it is the best way to understand the roots of goya, picasso and valezquez...

thanks. love you.

me

Sorry

Sorry about the last post, it was a little boring and annoying.

Well, I found a round trip ticket to London for a total 30 euros. Yes, that is it.

After our flight to London, we plan to fly out somewhere else. Where? Well, I have yet to figure that out!


Anyways,

I am here in Spain, and all is well.

Yesterday, I accidentally went out for tapas with one of my friends. Wandered around the University Area and got some sweet free tapas. A thing around that area is that you can choose your free tapa from a list, so just pick one! Its pretty great, but when you don´t know what anything is, its a bit of a gamble. There are sandwiches, I got some pizza, a salad, its all a bit of a surpise.

But great news! Its finally getting chilly!!! I get to wear sweaters and pants without looking crazy! Its been raining, but so far, I actually like it, becasue I get to frustrated with the heat and the sun!! haha. I am such a weirdo. but still, I am excited!!!

Well, thats all so far, I have my first class today, as in I am teaching English. Sometimes it feels good to be here and know that I am still not a mute and have mastered my one language! haha.

So This Whole Semana Blanca Thing

So, I am a planning my Semana Blanca, and it has become the most difficult thing in the world.

See, the reality is, Ryan Air offfers some unebelievable flights, but the locations are random at best.

I am really really confused.

Honestly, I do not want to complain and I do not want to spend too much money, but I have a lot of time to burn and I do not want to waste it.

Oh man, I have no idea.

So lost.

Stockholm is cool, but a whole week? Or Lyon? or Oslo...no, to expensive. Liverpool? London?

AHH!!!! SO LOST!!!

On Why I`m Okay With Being Jewish In Granada, or How People Are Really Racist Towards Others Here

So, does anyone remember that relatively famous picture of the Spanish basketball team in preparation for the Beijing Olympics? The whole line of players (jugadores de baloncesto), fingers pulling the skin near their eyes to imitate the Chinese eye shape, a racist motion in the United States that we may have done once or twice as kids and then grown up and felt guilty about? Well, here, its completely okay.

Infact, there is a bus ad that I see every day, advertising Chinese classes, and although it comes in various forms, the image remains the same, a Spanish child, often dressed in traditional Chinese garb, pulling their eyelids and smiling shamelessly. ¨Look!¨ they seem to say, ¨¨We´re Chinese now! hahaha!¨

Yes. Seriously, its totally not even weird. And when learning how to say almond shaped eyes in one of my classes, my teacher called on me, and I could not explain what the word meant (I knew it, but I could not explain it). So she kindly did that thing, where you imitate the eye shape!

Seriously, its shocking. Its not even offensive.

And then there are the Chino Shops, thats what they are called. Often owned by Chinese immigrants, hence the name, they line the streets of Granada and are filled with candy, soda, and booze, a bit like a 7-11. I have been maintaining a struggle with those stores because ALL of them offer a wide variety of chewy candy (and very little in the realm of chocolate minus two or three kinder eggs) that one can purchase per piece. So, you can go in, buy 50 cents worth of candy, and be very satisfied with the amounst of chewy goodness. Needless to say, I have recently quit them. I hope. They are my enemy! SO MUCH CHEWY CANDY!!!

And, the African population!? A new group of immigrants? Well, all they seem to do is sell illegally copied CDS or DVDS on the streets. You don´t see then doing anything else. And you don´t see anyone buying them. Its really upsetting.


When it comes to street vendors, it is completely okay and acceptable for them to walk up to you and sell sell sell. If you are sitting outside of cafe drinking coffee, they will come up to you and the owner will not stop you. If you are sitting INSIDE a restaurant, they will enter and sell to you and no one will stop them. Its bizarre.

And Gypsys? Well, they are randomly spread about town, performing or selling, forcefully, some palm readings. Very pricey, and useless if you don´t speak Spanish.

So, all in all, life is tough for the obviously different.

And I miss you guys! Until Next Time...aka, tomorrow

So What Is Granada LIKE?

In my book, Granada consists of four main parts.

There is the HISTORICAL part, the Alhambra, towering over the city, a looming artifact of past Muslim rule, the star attraction of this mountain town, and really, the only thing you can find on the postcards being sold in every corner of town. Near the Alhambra there is the Albaicin, with its old school narrow walk ways and white washed buildings, then Old Muslim Quarters, that have now become some homes and a few streets selling North African themed goods (did someone just say Aladdin pants and hookahs!?). There are also teterias, the Spanish always at teria to the end of anything. For example, cafeteria-teria=cafe place. Panaderia-deria=pan. Ferreteria-eria=not a place where the sell ferrets, I was sad to find out, but instead a key store. So, a teteria? Tea place. Decorated in the Morrocan-Moorish style, all ornate decoration, and jumnly music.

Alright what other parts? There is the new part. The clean part. The plaza part. Where my school is, where the Royal Cathedral housing Ferdinand and Isabella´s tombs are, where there is hustle and bustle and a lot of ice cream places. There is also a few streets that are essentially an outdoor shopping mall, smaller streets with plenty of stores and even more people walking around them.

The third part is what I call home, the third part is real Granada. Slightly crappier, noticably more graffiti, new building and lots of cafes. Chill and alive depending on the hour, its where the University of Granda is, and where I live. Its got lots of cheap stores. Something interesting here, there are what you call, Chino Stores here, no joke, its just like the term. Well, these stores, are essentially dollar stores, lots of candy and soda and beer, and bigger ones specialize in just selling random things for low prices. They are often owned by Asian immigrant families and have a great supply (to my demise) of chewy candy that you can mix and match.

And the fourth part? Crappy Ghetto Granada, the outskirts I have yet to visit-maybe never even will. Really Scary. Not supposed to go there. Haven´t.

Techno Remix

Currently there is a techno remix of the Barney I Love You song playing in the computer lab. The lyrics are different, but it is definitely that song...undeniable.

So, about this whole living in Spain thing. I have been here for over a month know, and its quite the experience. Today, my goal was to do my homework, I read a book instead. I still have time to do it tonight. And I know I will.

Sort Of...

So, the thing with Spaintime is that it functions very differently from America Time. For one thing, a half an hour usually means forty five minutes, and times are different for everything. You start going out at midnight, and the discotheques don´t open until about 3am...or atleast the don´t get good till then. I have yet to go to one, but that is what I have been told. Yesterday, I went out, but got a little bit of a headache and left early, I came home at 230am...ahhh Spain Time.

Granada is covered in graffiti, a thing I hope to take many pictures of and devote an entire posting to as soon as I can remember to bring my camera. Everywhere you go, the down town area, the university area, the Albaicin area, you will see grafitti scrawled on the walls. What we are all left wondering is, when do people do it? If people are out and about in Spain at 4am, when does one grafitti? Our most reasonable logic has been during siesta, about 2-4pm. People are indoors, eating or sleeping.The light is bright and allows a good view of what you are doing. And no one is around to stop you.

Let´s talk about the siesta, a little more indepth, because I think it should be analyzed more. Okay, its like this, at two o´clock, the world shuts down. You can wander pretty far and not see anything open. Its like a ghost town, and you think to yourself, why the hell am I even outside? No one else is.Then at six, the world explodes with people. There is as much hustle and bustle here as new york city. Even the tiny cafes near where I leave have people sitting in them. It is the most bizarre experience for me, and I am still trying to accept it.

On the clothes. So, sometimes I leave the apartment in which I live and thing, hmm...maybe this outfit is too much, and then, it seems, I see a woman at least twenty years older than me wearing something similar.For example, when we drove to Portugal,I work a long button down and leggings, and as I left my apartment, I thought, well, is the leggings as pants style okay in Spain? Not more than thirty seconds after I thought this, a fiftish woman walks past me rocking the same style.

I have noticed that in general, there is not such things as age inapproriate clothes, everyone can wear miniskirts if you have the legs, etc. etc.

Outside of that. All is well, lots of wandering today, getting lost and then finding my way to a part of Granada that I did not think I was walking towards...that was funny. I have finally gotten to learn the map of this crazy place, so I think I will be prepared for some tours come a few months from now.

Well, I miss you all! I am doing well!

And papsky, I am jealous of your message leaving abilities, they are making my posts look bad!!!

Some Pppiiccctttuuurrreesss!

Look, its me! I´m alive! And squinting because its sooo darn sunny in Lisbon. Thats Eunice to my right and Aarika to my left...I think. I´m bad with left and right rememeber, not their names!!!
I don´t know if you can tell but thats Kentucky Cigarettes lying discarded in Portugal...thinking of you Allison!!!
A Panorama shot of a square!! NIIICCEEE right?
There was a lot of decorative tile on the building of Lisbon, this was in Belem...in the older area.
See!? Like San Francisco! This is right outside the Parliament House...so bright!!

Portugal, Kind of Like Spain, Only Different

I would like to apologize for my previous post´s misnomer, I got very lazy and did not explain the title. When I was in Portugal, we were in Lisboa for one day, two nights, and then in Lagos, a coastal town for one night and two days. When we swam in the waters off the coast of Lagos, we all discussed how surprised we were that the Medditerean was so cold. Later, we were informed that it was infact the Atlantic Ocean, not the Med, and feeling like stupid geographically disabled Americans, we laughed and laughed. So, there is the reason for the title. Also, I know, I won the geography bee in Junior High, I should know that, the shame! Oh the Shame!!

Continuing about Portugal, well, there is so much to be said. Alas, I overslept today and while running out of my house, I forgot to pick up a cord to connect my camera to the computer, so no pictures today. Tomorrow, if I remember, I will do it. I apologize but I am trying my best.

So, Lisbon was beautiful, hills and old buildings. I always imagined Portugal to be very dreary, shades of blues and grays, but yet charmingly dirty buildings, aged in a Romantic sense. Although one did see this, the grays of dried water dripping after years of rain, the cobblestones barely holding ont the ground inwhich they are buried, the majority of Lisbon was surprisingly bright and colorful. Yellow buildings, clean, starchy white walls, and a warm sun that reflected off the coast. A good way to describe Lisbon would be if San Francisco and Paris had a baby. There are sprawling plazas, much like the one in front of the Louvre, and there are colorful buildings built on hills, much like San Francisco. The streets are tiny and winding, like Paris, and the buildings are designed in a very neoclassical style. As soon as I can, I WILL post pictures! I promise!!


Let´s talk about Hostels and how strange they really are. The hostel we stayed in in Lisbon was first, inexpensive, about 17 euro a night, and also, nicely located, off of what appeared to be the Michigan Avenue of Lisbon, lined with Louis Vuitton and Ferragamo. Do not think that this was a shady or risqué area, because it was not. It was clean and new and the entire hostel was filled with Ikea furniture down to those mugs that we have in our kitchen, the green and black ones. The people in the hostel were friendly, a few people from America, a lot of Austrialians and some Spanish and Portuguese people. The average age I would guess was about 24 but one woman appeared to be about 40. I slept in a room with eight people, all sleeping in one place, and not knowing eachother, and listening to half the room snore. I realized, if you are a light sleeper, do NOT stay in a hostel. It is impossible to sleep. There were two showers in the entire place and about three toilets, there were about 25 people staying in the place per night. That made the morning schedule a bit tedious and frustrating, but all in all, it was not as strange as I expected. There was also a free breakfast of coffee and bread with jam. Some very delicious portuguse bread.. (side note: I did in fact have car sandwiches, my señora packed me some for my drive to Lisbon and I ate them happily! haha..the rest of the trip, I munched of bread but I was too cheap to buy cheese or meat!) Well, all in all the hostel was nice.



I saw a lot of surprising things in Portugal, primarily a transgender prostitute outside our hostel. Yes. You heard me right¡. I don´t know why, but I feel like I saw a lot of strange things in Lisbon. I saw two homeless men snort lines of coke while I was walking with my friends (everyone says the same thing upon hearing this: "that´s why they´re homeless!"). Well, I guess that is really about all, but it was odd nonetheless. Do not worry about my safety, by the way, although there were some shadier people, I was always walking in well lit, highly populous areas with large groups of people. Although it seemed like I stumbled upon some higly risky activity I did not get involved with it...obviously! (haha...this is clearly for the parents, I don´t think anyway else is worried about me, more laughing at the oddity of it)...


Yes. That was Lisbon...I need to post pictures.

Alright, A little SPAIN news. I have a job! For my Culture of Spain class, I am required to work outside of my class with Spanish people. And I got a job tutoring Spanish kids with English. I think I make 5 euors an hour, for two hours a week, so not much, but hey, money is money!!! I guess that is about all.

Uff...I´m sick of typing, but soon, I will return and tell more more more!!

Miss you all! Love you all!!!!

Swimming in the Atlantic While Thinking It Was The Mediterranean

So, here I am, back in Granada after a very long and exciting weekend in Portugal. I have a LOT of things to say about Portugal, about driving, about living in hostels, and about traveling to a country without any knowledge of its language or culture.

Let´s begin with Portuguese language and people, thats a good starting point. Well, the language can be imitated pretty easily, just say ¨¨ShlishShalishShloosh¨ Needless to say there is a lot of SH in Portuguese. One could describe it as is French and Russian had a baby, or if someone who speaks English tried speaking Polish. The language is pretty throaty but somehow is spoken almost like English in its harsher vowels. Needless to say, it is pretty funny. And also, pretty impossible to understand even with a base of Spanish. There were plenty of times where we just asked ¨Habla Español?¨and spoke in Spanish with people. I was impressed with myself when that happend.

Now, Portuguese people are very tan and very brunette. I would also venture to say very good looking. They are kind of what I expected Spanish people to look like. They are all incredibly tan with dark, romantic features. As always, my "porcelein" skin stood out in the crowd and being with people who were blond, you would get a lot of weird looks. It was pretty strange. Photos were taken of us foreigners just because we stuck out so much!

Alright, the food? Well, to be honest, because we were living cheaply so there was a lot of grocery shopping. WE went out to eat at two restaurants, one I mentioned earlier, the other a Chinese reatuarant which served American Style Chinese food but WORSE. Anyways, that I really can´t discuss in great detail. I can, however, tell you, that the bread is Portugal is better than the bread in Spain.

What else, what else? Well, I heard Nelly Furtado (who is of Portuguese decent) three times in POrtugal, which I deemed a lot considering she has no new music out. Also, I heard a surprisingly large amount of what America would deem Indie Rock. The Kooks were playing in the McDonalds, MGMT was blasting out the window of a house party, and I heard techno remixes of Santogold and José Gonzalez. I liked it.

Oh The Things I Have Seen

So, What did I do in Lisbon, Portugal?

Explored. I am set to leave in the next few minutes, but alas, I will try to explain what I have done. We began our one day out walking to the coast, we leave more inland. Although there is plenty of coast in Lisboa, there is no beack, just fyi for those wondering. After wandering through some adorable streets, we stumbled upon an old elevator, pretty muching standing alone in the middle of a street. We rode it, it cost 2.80 euro, but gave us the best views of Lisboa one could dream of. Later, we continued our walk and made it to the captial buidling and then an old church, where there was a WEDDING!! So, we went in and politely crashed a Portuguese wedding. After that we went out for food, I got potatoes, a huge piece of fish and BROCCOLI for 5.50 euro. It was great. After that? We took the tram down the coast to Belem, the old neighborhood, where we stumbled upon the tomb of Vasco De Gama (even though, I cannot for the life of me tell you what EXACTLY he explored...) and we sat on the coast and watched as GIANT swarms of fishs swarm eagerly near the rock. It was actually kind of scary.

In Belem, I was able to call my sister and wish her a HAPPY BIRTHDAY! (HAPPY BIRTHDAY I-I-IEhkA!!!) and walk down the tiny twisty street. We returned to our area of town only to stumble upon people from my program who were also visiting Lisbon (we had been planning on meeting later, but instead met up earlier) amd so, we talked for a while and went out. The streets of Lisbon are PACKED at night and most bars are essentially outdoor bars because ALL the patrons spill onto the streets. Its was amazing seeing so many people, all out drink from little cups and talking in Portuguese.

So, descriptional information will come later! I have to get going, we're driving down to Lagos, a little beach town on the south. Talk later! Miss you all! Happy sandwich day, l-l-lEH!!!

In Lisboa

Well, we were supposed to leave at 8am. We got out car at 11. We had to go back to Granada, and only really got on the road at 12:30. We arrive in Portugal at 10:30 pm. The drive is supposed to take 7 hours. From begining to end, it takes almost 12. Why? Well, our drive through Granada (one of my friends forgot her passport) added some time, AND we got lost in Lisboa for two SOLID hours.

Lisboa is built on four hills. I drive stick. Its a large city and we were driving around on a Friday night. It is also an old city with tiny, swirling streets. Needless to say, I think I deserve a reward for my driving skills.

I have plenty to say, but I am so tired!! Im okay though!!!

Love you all, miss you all!!!

I´m Going To Portugal!!!

Thats it, the plans are set! We´re going to Portugal!!!

So, the plan!?
Tomorrow, at 8am, I leave Granada and drive 7 hours to Lisboa!!
I spend two nights at the Lisboa Central Hostel, walking around and exploring the capital.
Sunday Morning, wake up early and drive 3 hours to Lagos!!!
All of Sunday will be spent chilling on the beaches of Southern Portugal, and then we will spend the night at the Rising Cock Hostal (sorry guys, that is what it is called)...
On Monday morning, we´ll wake up and drive 5 hours back to Granada...And then probably collapse from so much ADVENTURE!!!

I am really unbelievably excited and I have absolutely NO IDEA what to expect. I am nervous to drive, but I will take on the task at hand and DOMINATE THE ROADS....yeah!

Well, outside of that, Spain.....

I have just been living life. I went out for drinks with a few of my friends, and we got some olives and pickles for tapas, a cheap tapa but .. I didn´t hate the olives. Apparently, I am growing as a person. Wow.

Here, there is a drink called tinto de verano, a half glass of red wine and the other half, lemonade. The Spanish version of an Arnold Palmer. Its delicious, but definitely a kiddie drink. Really, its wine for babies!! Yummy!!

Its still warm. Classes are going strong. I am doing alright. I miss you all!!

One of those Mornings

Isn´t it the best feeling to wake up in your bed and hear the storm settling over your home? You listen to the pitter patter against the windows, hear the chilly winds spiraling outside, while you lay there, warm and comfortable, hours before any need to remove yourself from the cacoon of blankets and pillows. Well that was me this morning, as the first storm settled over Granada, thundering and blustering through the neighborhood. The only difference: I woke up eight minutes before my alarm was set to go, and would soon be thrust out into the rain, a downpour of gray, forced to walk to school at least half an hour away.

Well, I walked, and it rained, and Granada, a mountain town built, I think, specificically for people to fall, was covered in smooth and beautiful but also incredibly slippery stone walkways. There I was, sliding to class, a fell into a puddle, and quickly attempted to recover, knowing that about twenty people saw the foreign girl fall into a murky pool of water of the edge of a street. I came into class, wet and dray, my umbrella protecting parts of me while leaving others (like my backpack) exposed to the harmful rain. SO, this has been my morning, and now, I sit, typing away in the computer lab, wondering, when or if the rain is going to stop.

Now, onto more exciting adventures. After many days of discussions, and shifts of groups of people and caravans, I have officially rented a car with three other girls and we are headed to Portugal!! The plan so far is a short drive to Lagos, a coastal beach town, for a day of (I HOPE) sun, then a drive north to LIZBON (okay, its Lisboa, but c´mon...c´mon) for a few days of meandering. The most exciting part about this whole thing is that I know NOTHING about Portugal, I have no idea what to expect. And there is something incredibly exciting about that fact. I know one word, obrigado, thank you, in Portuguese. I know is is on the Coast of the Iberian Peninsula and that it produces Port Wine, I know family that has gone there and loved it, and I know that for some reason I imagine it to be blue tinted, kind of like CSI New York, but more romantic. I hope its chillier there, the heat is killing me and I am ready to wear some fall appropriate clothes. I hope its cheaper there, although I have been living relatively inexpensively, I wouldn´t mind any cut in costs. I hope its alive there, because since I am now used to siesta and children playing in the park at 11pm, I expect life to bubble up out of nowhere in Europe. I hope a lot of things, but I expect NOTHING and that is what is the most fun.

Ofcourse, I am nervous. I am the only one driving, and European driving is a whole new experience for me, I have seen it done, but I have never done it myself. I guess, I just have to be both SAFE and CONFIDENT while FOCUSING ONLY ON THE ROAD. Well, cross your fingers for me!!

I mean, all is well, one of those, ¨I feel like a brat for complaining, my life is so great and I still manage to find reasons to sulk¨ feelings, is floating over me. Its hard being away from home, but having the oppourtunity to travel so much and to experience life, well, I will never have that again. So I am here to live, DAMNIT, and to explore, and to do things that I would never do otherwise (only if reasonably priced and safe, which may be why I won´t go to Greece) and to see the world. Its almost like one of those Grand Tours in the Victorian era. Take a trip around the world, experience culture, see things, meet people, go to museums, etc. etc. I am here to see what is around and to test myself emotionally and to, I dunno, drive to Portugal. ha.

Spain is weird, its different, and its hard sometimes to feel so alone. Yet, it is also something that I love and will never forget and try to cherish every moment. Know that I miss you all! I love you all!


Now, some side notes:

In Spain, bras are always OPTINIONAL, no matter how large you are or how old.

In Spain, there are always two light switches in a bedroom, one by the door and one next to your bed, so no need to get up out of bed if you´re falling asleep with the lights on.

In Granada, a free tapa is expected. And if you order a second round of drinks, you will get another one. The tapas I have seen: entire baked potatos, tuna salad and bread, paella, a fried egg with tuna and lettuce in between, sitting atop a piece of bread with tomato sauce, deep fried mystery fish, and, russian salad (yes, ensalada ruso) which consists of potato, some other cut up veggies, all tossed together in a mayo sauce...sounds familiar, no?

In Spain, if you order a cheese sandwich, you will get bread and cheese. That is all.

In Spain, Olive Oil goes with EVERYTHING.

In Spain, sometimes its okay to have a mullet.

Alright,
I guess thats all for now.

Miss everyone!

Love Love Love,
Me