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!!!