Sunday, October 18, 2009

10:27 PM

Just a couple interesting things to note about Spain:

- It’s really hard to tell how old Spaniards are. Seriously. Doesn’t matter if they’re in their teens or in their 80s, it’s impossible to guess.

- They talk about food ALL the time. Now that my Spanish is better I can eavesdrop, and that’s the most popular topic of discussion.

- I know I’ve said it before, but mullets are really “in” here.

- I wish I loved anything as much as they love soccer. But actually.

- Spain loves to recycle and conserve. Everywhere there’s a trash can there are two separate bins for recycling. They take military showers so as to not use too much water. They shut off the lights whenever they leave a room.

- Oddly enough, Spain also loves bottled water. I don’t get it.

- Spaniards use Mopeds or Motorcycles just as much, if not more, than cars. What’s awesome about this is that very well dressed businessmen and women ride to work in their heels, their dress shoes, their nice suits, you name it. I aspire to that level of suaveness.

This is an OK representation, but here the woman drive. Sometimes the men are even on the back, and that's the most exciting.

- Yesterday at the gym I saw a man wearing baggy sweatpants that only went down to his mid calf and a skin-tight striped tank top. Unfortunately I looked for a similar picture on the internet just now, but couldn’t find one. I'm sure it exists, though.

October 17, 2009

11:35 AM

Dorm

P.S. Sorry there aren't many photos to accompany this yet, but I left my camera to upload my pictures in Paris, and it's currently in the hands of the European postal service, I hope.

Things are going well in Granada, but since I’ve returned from Paris a week ago, I cannot stop thinking about it. Maybe it’s that it was my first “European” trip, maybe it’s that I got to see friends I really missed, maybe it’s that it was my first getaway from my program, or maybe it was just that it was Paris. In any case, I adored it.

On Thursday night I got on the last bus to Malaga and stayed at a hostel for 10 euro (I love Europe). I shared a ten-bed room with 2 other men who, when I arrived at 11, were already sleeping. Don’t know what other peoples’ experiences are like with hostels, but I find them to be incredibly awkward. I was trying to tip-toe around and not wake them up but I kept smashing into things, which was really silent. The best part was that I had to make my own bed. I basically ended up sleeping in a “sheets burrito” so I wouldn’t have to turn on the light and noisily tuck my sheets in and everything. I do like burritos, though, so it was fine.

The next day I boarded my flight to Paris bright and early and watched the sun rise from the air. When I got to Paris the airport was massive, and for some reason I forgot that people in France speak French, not Spanish. I speak Spanish, not French. Luckily everyone there, although they get kinda pissed when you ask them if they do, speaks some English. Yay America! Nevertheless, I must have been looking particularly French that morning (after taking a two-hour bus ride, sleeping four hours, taking a two hour flight and wandering around the airport confusedly) because many people struck up conversations with me. My response for everyone was a motion with my hand that was very similar to the motion you would make to describe throwing up. It began with my hand sort of near my mouth and then kind of fanning out into the air accompanied by my saying “I’m sorry I don’t speak French” to which most people responded, “Oh, OK,” and walked away. All in all, a successful method. At one point on the metro during the weekend someone asked me something and I attempted a little “Desole, j’n’parle pas frances,” which sounded approximately like “J no, par pals frances.” The woman I said it to laughed, turned to her friend, and either said (in French, so I’m not sure), “Italians never speak French,” or, “Maybe it’s because we’re Italian.” Really I have no idea, I just am positive that she said something about Italians.

Carly and Bryn met me at the airport and even though I just saw Carly two weeks ago and Bryn at the end of the summer, it was wonderful to see them come around the corner to find me. We hopped on the metro after paying 8.50 for one ride and arrived half an hour later at their apartment, which, coincidentally, is on the same street as the Spanish Embassy. Spooky. They also happen to live about a four second walk from the Eiffel Tower, which is alright, I guess. I guess if I could live anywhere in the world I would accept living right next to the Eiffel Tower. We took a walk over and were bombarded by men trying to sell us one-euro key chains and other weird paraphernalia. Sometimes they get word that the cops are coming and all gather up their mini Eiffels and go sprinting in the same direction. I saw it once. It made my day.

The first day rounded out with a trip to a Fondue restaurant. This is not just any fondue, friends, this is wine in baby bottles, money taped to the walls, scary French waiters, tiny little dining room fondue. In other words, awesome fondue.

I’m still not sure how I feel about drinking nice white wine out of baby bottles with a little nipple, but it happened, so I went along with it. At the end of the meal we all felt nice and warm for our wine and cleansed from our cheese fondue facial. The pots sat in the middle of the table and the steam wafted up into all of our pores, especially Beckie’s. It made for a really spectacular feeling the next morning. We also went to see the Eiffel Tower sparkle that night, and watched a man spit fire, which was awesome and terrifying. Another man had a Turkish flag draped over his shoulders. He must have won a race and was taking his victory lap.

I got up early the next day to watch True Blood and eat French cereal (the same brands as the US but approximately 100% better, crunchier, tastier, awesomer) before anyone else got up. Eventually Bryn and I headed out to see the Notre Dame, and unfortunately upon getting off the metro walked the wrong direction and couldn’t find it before we had to leave for a bike ride in the park with their business school abroad. Our bike ride was fun and, as it turns out, there were two people there with Brookline connections (small world)! My first hint about their program director was that he was wearing green sweatpants with some Boston thing on them, a Celtics playoffs shirt from a LONG time ago, a Boston marathon windbreaker, and a New Bedford fishing association hat on. He fit in really well in Paris. He heard me talking about Brookline with one of the French students who has family there and who studied at Milton Academy for a year, and almost fell of his bike.

Apparently the director’s family lives on Chestnut Hill Ave, which, for those of you who don’t know, is about a five-minute walk from my house. It’s my neighborhood. I was blown away that not one, but two people there had family in my town. How weird.

That evening, after escaping early from the bike ride, stepping in some dog poop and buying some sweet boots, we all went out. Our night ended at a little café with a pitcher of wine, a café au lait, a chocolat chaud, and a té au lait. Actually, our night ended with a Banana Nutella crepe, which was heaven in my mouth, and on my hands, and my chin and a little on my pants, too. Oops. That’s when my love affair with crepes began.

On the last day we went to the Louvre, and got in free! Apparently because we are studying in Europe we’re considered European citizens between the ages of 18-25, which means we get into the Louvre free! We saw all the usual stuff, but didn’t get a single explanation because EVERYTHING in the Louvre is written in French, and nothing, with the exception of the signs telling you to “Keep your hands of the works of art,” is written in English. Luckily Bryn, with her several semesters of art history, was able to give us some valuable notes about several paintings and several styles of art. Yay for Bryn! When we left we asked an American if he could take our picture. Bad idea. It took forever, he wanted to take it from approximately 10 different angles, and then wanted to be in a picture. Boo.

Afterwards we headed to the Musee d’Orsay, which for me was arguably more fun. They have a huge collection of impressionist paintings, of which I found a favorite: Snow at Louveciennes painted by Alfred Sisley.

I don’t know what it was about this painting that I loved so much, but tears came to my eyes when I first saw it. When I’m a trillionaire I’ll own it. OR, if someone wants to buy me it, I’m sure it’s not THAT expensive. Outside the Musee d’Orsay are several sculptures of humungous, very real-looking safari animals (and a horse). I obviously took pictures of them. There was also a crazy man singing. Cities are awesome for so many different reasons.

Just before bed Amanda and I headed to the Eiffel tower to get a crepe, and I, mistaking someone speaking French for someone speaking Spanish, struck up a conversation. Amazingly, it was semi successful. The next day I got on the Metro alone at 745, and with only slight difficulty made it to the airport with plenty of time to spare. I love Granada, and it was a nice feeling to step off the bus here and feel like I was home, but I fell in love with Paris. I hope my life takes me there at some point.

October 12, 2009

5:58 PM

Location: It’s always the same

So, even though it’s mid-October, the summer is over, and the weather should be cooling off, it’s maybe hotter here than it was the third week of our stay. It’s awkward because we wake up in the morning to frigidness (about 15-18 degrees Celsius, which equals about mid 50s F for all you non-Europeans), but after two hours of class we step outside to a broiling sun. The other day I went on a walking adventure wearing my black jacket (I wear it everyday, it’s kind of awkward), some jeans and some sandals. After about 15 steps I was sweating profusely and had to take off my jacket. Two hours later, after walking around the entire city doing errands and eventually hiking up the mountain to our dorm, my backpack and jeans were damp. Yummy. I love the heat. In October.

I lost my train of thought at this point because I received a phone call from tbernie14 and we planned a trip together in a few weeks! I told her that in my blog I strive for hilarity. Anyway, it is now 3:18 PM on Tuesday, October 13.

Apparently here in Spain Tuesday the thirteenth is an unlucky day just like Friday the thirteenth for us. Who knew? The minute after our professor told us that I broke the clip off the pen that I was borrowing while sitting next to the kid I was borrowing it from. Very unlucky.

I went to Paris this past weekend and I have a ton to write about that, but I’ll give it its own post. For this entry I think I’ll dedicate it to lovely Andalucía. Last weekend (the one before this past one), we made a day trip to Córdoba to see the mosque that is still there from the Islamic era.

We had been learning about it in Art History class, and it was unbelievable to see it in person. It helped that our tour was led by Lupe ‘the great’ (that’s my nickname for her). She is the best professor that has ever graced this earth. I want her to adopt me.

The mosque is absolutely massive and has gone through five expansions.

Everything has its own little story and Lupe explained it like a pro. The best.

Weirdly, in the middle of this dark, mystical mosque is a really tall cathedral. It’s just plopped right in the middle. When the Christians conquered Córdoba they left the mosque, but made it a “Christian” Cathedral. So crazy to see.

After our trip to Córdoba we went to Medina Alzahara, the ancient runes of Abdrrahman III’s (mouthful) royal city. It was pretty awesome, but it’s dry to write about, and I have sweet pictures from the disposable camera I had to use. I love disposable cameras, by the way. Not.

On Saturday I had a Granada day and found an AWESOME Brazilian store. The guy made me juice, and it was really good. I love Brazilians. I also found out that my camera cannot be fixed. F. Sunday, though, was the best day of all. At 2:30 PM, packed lunch in hand, four friends and I met at the bus stop and took a day trip to the Sierra Nevada for a hike.

The bus ride up there was nauseating, to say the least, and when we finally arrived in Monachil (the town we were to start from), I wanted to boot everywhere. Gross. We walked a little ways through the town looking SUPER American and eventually reached the “trail head.”

I put that in quotation marks because there was barely an official sign. The sign pointed up the mountain and read “Los Cahorros.” There was no map, no visitor’s center, nothing. I think Sharon Levine would have had a heart attack. So we headed off into the mountains, cameras in hand ready for action. I took my broken camera with me and snapped some pretty cool blind pics, so enjoy those throughout this blog.

Some cool/weird things that we encountered along the way:

- A thin bridge on which only four people were permitted at a time. It wobbled.

- Way too many little kids running around the edge of this river.

- Fresh figs (higos) that I was too scared to eat, but that Lucas was not.

- A really cool ledge

- A scary rock wall that Miriam wanted to climb

- A man putting a lot of effort into getting a remote control truck to drive up a vertical rock wall. He was not successful.

- Lots of poop. Not surprising, considering it’s Granada and there’s poop everywhere. I’m pretty sure this was wild animal poop, though, which makes it more exciting.

- Rattle snakes. Well, not really, but we thought we heard some. I actually think it was a bush and the wind.

- The spikiest plants ever

- A snake skin.

- People from Finland.

All in all, a great hike.

At the end we headed back down into Monachil and had beers at a restaurant next to which, every few minutes, a man would set off really loud fireworks. He creepily stood there doing nothing and then would randomly pull a firework off the stand and ignite it. It didn’t even look cool, it just made a bang. He probably should have grown out of that phase of his life years before. Whatever.

Anyway, not too much to say here, but felt I had to update everyone on our cool hike. I felt very outdoorsy afterwards. I’m glad that outdoorsy is a real word.

An annotation: Sydney and I sometimes dance in our room.

Bullfight (Kinda graphic, sorry)

 

On Sunday afternoon, we attended a bullfight (with Carly!!!!). 

There were, I think, more American students there than Spanish spectators. Most Spaniards who attend bullfights are older people. Young people don’t really like going because bull fights (corridas, as they call them, and as I will refer to them, as I am slowly becoming Española) have become extremely controversial around these parts. I sort of thought everyone was making too big a deal out of it, and didn’t really understand why people protest such a cultural tradition. Then I went to one. Now I know. It was horrendous/awesome/terrifying/shocking/cool/awful/gruesome/traditional/oh my god. Let me try to give you a little view into the world of the bullfight (as if I really know something about it, which I do not).

 The whole thing starts with a huge bull running out into the middle of the ring. 

He looks confused and kind of pissed, and when the little team of ‘toreros,’ as they’re called, all come out, he runs towards their pink capes and gets to them just after they duck behind a little wooden fence. 

After they’ve done that for awhile, two horses come out dressed in an armor of wood or metal, and the toreros provoke the bull to charge the horse, at which point the guy on horseback proceeds to stab the bull’s back with a short, but very sharp little blade. After that guy continuously shoves this spear into the bull, the toreros distract the bull again, and the horse runs off. Next, they do this really scary thing where a guy, sans cape and sans sword, faces the bull head on, gets it to charge him, and stabs it in the back (now bleeding profusely from the injuries inflicted by the horseback rider) with two little objects. (When I say the bull is bleeding profusely, I kid you not. There is legitimately blood spurting out of the wound. Too graphic? Tough noogies). The two little stick things (I really know my vocab when it comes to bull fights) are about 2 feet long, and are usually multicolored. 

From where we were sitting I couldn’t tell what they were made of, and by the end of the bullfight you can’t even tell what color they were, because they are entirely soaked through with blood. They do this three times, and each time it’s terrifying. Just as the torero (brave?crazy? Your call) is about to be trampled, his teammates distract the bull (thank god for colorblindness) and save his little tush.  By the end of this part the bull should have stab wounds from the horseman and 6 little poles sticking out of his back. Now it’s time for the Top Gun matador. Again, I have no idea on the name, and most people actually call him Torero also, but I’m going to stick with Matador because it means killer, and that’s what he does. Anyway, he goes out into the middle with a red cloth and a sword, and, for about 10 minutes or so, provokes the bull, yells at it, and gets it to charge at his cape. 

After close calls, the crowd yells, “Olé!” Eventually the matador walks off to the side of the ring, leaving the bull in the middle looking confused, bloody and pissed, and gets his bigger sword. A few quick charges later the matador stands poised, sword in the air, and stabs the bull through the back.

 If done correctly the bull staggers, charges again, and then dies almost instantaneously. Out of the six we saw, that was only the case once. If it’s done incorrectly the sword sticks out of the bull’s back, he continues to charge at the team of toreros, and slowly bleeds out. After several agonizing minutes it trips, falls, coughs up blood, and then is stabbed in the back of the neck with a small sword to kill it once and for all. Everyone cheers, and the bull’s horns are tied to a slay that is dragged out of the circle by two horses, leaving a thick trail behind the bull’s carcass. That’s the standard.

The variations, however, are endless. They kill six bulls in a corrida, and so there are millions of moments during which someone can mess something up. At one point the matador tripped and the bull stomped all over him, leaving him with a bloody knee. With that bull he went on to be the one to stab all six little poles into its back, and to kill it with one swift blow to the back in the very end. He was the recipient of said bull’s ear for doing such a good job. He later killed another bull, and for the whole day, after being trampled early on, he wore a turnucate around his leg as the red spot near his knee got bigger and bigger. Yum. In another weird turn of events a different bull straight up just charged the wall and broke a panel of wood out. Not at all dangerous.

The people at the Corrida are a whole different area of fascination. First of all, for them, watching it is like watching a hockey game. It doesn’t really affect them at all, and they know all the rules and customs. When the Matador does a good job and kills the bull with one swift blow, they stand up and wave little white flags at him. When the bull almost tramples the torero, but doesn’t, they all yell, “Olé!.” Most of them seem a little bit like the people who go betting at the horse tracks. Some of them seem way too nice to be at these Corridas. All in all, not a normal crowd.

Some things I learned at the bullfight:

1. It is not customary to eat there (or anywhere other than a table, for that matter)
2. The bull’s ear is cut off and given to the Torero if he does a good job
3. Bulls are colorblind
4. Bulls are not that intelligent
5. Neither are people

 

All in all, I have some concluding comments:

1. After seeing the bullfight I agree with the protestors, it is a little barbaric. It’s almost like the people are taunting the bull, “You’re gonna die, you’re gonna die.” Kinda effed up. It would be a different ballgame if all parties involved knew the desired outcome.
2. I no longer want to eat red meat.
3. Spain needs subtitles. For everything. Including Bullfights.

Bridges, Baths, and Big Buildings

September 30, 2009

3:25 PM

Location: Residence Hall

 

 

A perfect time for a post: pre siesta, post gym and huge meal, ready for some writing. So much has happened, I don’t even know where to begin. Since most of our days are pretty much the same, I’ll try to only touch on the big stuff, but I don’t know how easy that will be.

 

Last weekend we took our first overnight trip as a group. You would think that 75 students+2 buses+ 30 hotel rooms + two destinations = nightmare, but you are too pessimistic. IES knows what’s up. On Friday morning bright and early we left from Granada and headed by bus to Ronda. What is Ronda?  you may ask, and you would not be dumb for asking that. I, unfortunately, am not the person to ask. I can tell you, however, that the views are incredible, and I can tell you some of these other cool facts, which will be highlighted with wonderful photos taken by yours truly:

-       At one point Ronda was the capital of the Muslim empire

-       It, like Granada, has an old part of the city and a new part of the city connected by a huge, really awesome bridge.

-       It’s very windy there

-       It houses the oldest plaza de toros in the country, and is made completely of stone

-       European tourists love it there.

Clearly, a great choice by IES. We were led around the city in little tiny tour groups, and I decided to follow my Islamic Art and Architecture teacher, who is the bomb. She knows so much information, and she’s great about keeping it simple and interesting. She also speaks really slowly and clearly, which is great for us English speakers. We saw all sorts of old structures and pieces of art including this huge bridge that has actually been built twice. 

The first time, they built it in 7 months and then one day it collapsed, killing 50 people It is about 100 m. tall, so said victims probably didn’t have much of a chance. After the collapse, they hired a contractor to build a new, sturdier bridge, and it took him 40 years to complete it. It is, quite obviously, a landmark. I bought a postcard. The little window that you may or may not be able to see near the top of the bridge used to be used as a jail, which is pretty freaky. 

The drop is very steep. Anyway, after some bridge viewing, a tour of the arab baths and some lunch outside the local McDonalds, we all headed over to the Plaza de Toros.

            It’s an unbelievable structure that actually probably can’t hold all that many people at once. It is made completely of stone, and has been in existence for hundreds of years. We walked around inside the stadium and went over to the area where the bulls are kept before the “corrida.” 

It smelled like a farm. Anyway, it really made me want to see a bull fight, so on Sunday we went to one. I’ll talk about it a little later. Freezing cold, and tired, all 75 of us climbed back on our buses and headed off to Sevilla for the night.

            We relaxed at the hotel for a few hours and then joined a couple other Tulanians for some food at a restaurant near where we were to meet the group later on. After living in Granada for a month and getting very used to receiving a free tapa with every drink you order, I was quite upset to learn that wasn’t something that happens everywhere in Spain. How lame. We met with the group and headed over to a Flamenco show. I can say without a doubt that it changed my life. It was one of the most beautiful, emotionally charged, talent driven spectacles I have ever seen. The dancers make no attempt to smile or justify the beauty of their dance on their face. They concentrate completely on the subtle movements of their hands, the stomping of their feet, the snapping of their fingers, and, in the case of the woman, the movement of her dress. Their expression is one of sheer effort and fatigue. It was an experience that brought tears to my eyes, and one I will never forget.

            The next morning we broke off into our little tour groups again, and went to Los Alcazares Reales, the Royal Palaces of the Christian kings. Well done, IES, well done. 

The palaces are a little difficult to explain, so I’ll save you most of the details we heard from our art history professor. They’re pretty cool facts though, so if you want them, just give me a call, I’d be happy to send a cascade of facts that I may or may not remember correctly in your direction.

 Unfortunately, my pictures won’t do much good either, because my camera broke when I dropped it on the cement floor as I tried to take a picture of a weird tiny painting of a horse. F. The palaces were cool after that, but I was mostly focused on my broken camera and these really delicious smelling flowers that we found and that I wanted to have permanently lodged in my nostril.

            After some lunch we headed to the cathedral. It is the third largest cathedral in the world after St. Peter’s and St. Paul’s. It was pretty cool but also kinda scary and gothic. I enjoyed it, though. 

Our lovely weekend drew to a close with a bike ride around the city and to a nearby park. Sevilla rents bikes all over the city out of kiosks. Great idea, right?! Wrong. Spaniards need to learn what is appropriate for a kiosk machine and what isn’t. It took us maybe 45 minutes to rent 5 bikes. We caused a huge backup. The bike ride, however, was completely worth it, even though my seat wouldn’t raise so I felt like one of those 13 year old boys with his tiny bike and huge pants and kinda cool baseball hat. I probably looked like one, too.

 Anyway, sorry about the long winded Sevilla explanation. Oh, one more thing: we stopped at a rest stop on the way home and it was legitimately the weirdest place I’ve ever been. It smelled like a roller rink, and had all these different sectioned off areas selling weird stuff. The inventory list consisted of, to name a few:

Chips, candy, gum, apples, towels, china miniatures, stuffed animal backpacks, a hat with a marijuana leaf on it, a full pork leg, a variety of different liquors, and some snow globes. It made me uncomfortable.

            The following week was uneventful, but last Friday we moved from our homestay to our dorm. It has been a huge adjustment that we are all still getting used to. Some of the highs of the dorm:

It’s really high up on a mountain.

Some of the lows:

It’s really high up on a mountain and we have to climb up here every day.

None of the Spanish kids talk to us, and most of them stare and laugh instead

We have no food.

We have no kitchen.

We share a room

There is no toilet paper.

F.

Actually, it’s not that bad, but when we were dropped off by Jose on Friday I felt like a little kid getting dropped off to summer camp and not knowing anyone. I still feel a little like that, but its getting better. Good news: the dining hall opens tomorrow!

 

I also joined a gym, which was huge news, and I love going there. Its in the basement of this building that is on a street that is home to a lot of homeless people. It’s a pretty sweet gym, though, and a lot of its members are my age. Yahoo! Today, as I was working out I spied the “vibrating machine” out of the corner of my eye. I’m not exactly sure what goes on over there but it has a big poster next to it that explains all the different exercises you can do on it. At the bottom it says “for professional use only.” I don’t think I’m professional enough to use it. The gym, little did I know when I signed up, gives me both mental and physical exercise at the same time. Why? I have to convert everything while I’m there: kilometers, kilograms…. Well I guess that’s it, but it’s a lot. Here’s what I have learned so far: 2.2lbs = 1 kilogram. I run at a pace of 10 km/h.

 

After the gym today I went shopping. I was starving, bad idea. I had a huge hill to walk up after buying my groceries, bad idea. But I did it anyway, and made it home alive, barely breathing, and sweating tremendously. It was a cute moment for me.

As we speak Spaniards are walking by my window wearing the weirdest neon shirts ever. I think I’ll buy some. 

The Hills: LC and Lo see naked people

September 16, 2009

3:36 PM (Siesta)

Homestizzle

 

 

It’s been too long since I’ve written, and it’s becoming daunting, so I decided to end my misery and write again. So much has happened. The Spanish adventures are beginning.

 

Since the last entry, in summary, we have done the following: hiked 14 km along the southwestern coast, seen nude people, finished orientation, started classes, spoken Spanish, eaten tapas, and taken pictures. Doesn’t seem like that much, but oh how you are mistaken. I’ll leave out what isn’t important.

 

Cabo de Gata is an area that has a huge national park that includes both land and sea. You can hike for miles and miles and miles on this path that has desert as far as your eye can see to the left, and the Mediterranean for miles to the right. To say it is breathtaking just doesn’t cut it. At 845 AM on Monday morning, after waiting an hour for three girls who got lost walking to our meeting point – not an easy feat considering all they had to do was follow the river a couple hundred feet – (in case you’re wondering, they followed it in the wrong direction) we headed off on probably the MOST nauseating ride imaginable. False. Not the MOST, but ONE of the most nauseating rides ever. We piled off the bus (all 80 Americans) to the beauty of the bright blue Mediterranean and started off on our hike. 

The setting was unbelievable and we actually moved pretty fast considering how many of us there were. We were all relieved to arrive at our first stop, the beach, after a couple hours walking in the hot sun. 

Unfortunately, there were several downsides:

1: The wind was really strong, causing sand to whip up into your face and stick to your arms covered in suncream (that’s how Spaniards say sunscreen).

2. Getting wet in the ocean didn’t help.

3. Everyone who was already swimming there was nude.

4. I had to pee but didn’t realize it until AFTER I got out of the water. F.

5. Putting my socks and shoes back on for the remaining several hours of the hike was DEATH. Sandy, sticky, painful death.

Despite the discomfort in my shoes and everywhere else on my body, we surged on listening to a constant stream of information from our guide who seemed to legitimately know everything there is to know about nature. Take that Jeff Corwin. I was only disappointed when I asked her if there were any rattle snakes around (which I had obviously been looking and listening for the whole time), to which she responded, “Of course, but never so close to the beach!” Damn. Eventually we arrived at beach #2, at which point I was completely out of water, and stayed there for an hour while some decided to swim. I opted to stay dry, avoiding the misery of putting on sandy clothes AGAIN, and enjoyed sitting in the shade, observing the naked, and listening to the water. Some preferred to talk on their blackberries. Puke.

At the end of the day, we arrived at a town whose name I cannot recall, but it looked EXACTLY like Greece. Dinner was awaiting us at a small Italian restaurant on the outskirts of town, and we all scarfed it up happily while watching the tv (they somehow had found an Italian channel in Spain), hanging out and wanting to die from sunstroke, dehydration and fatigue. Some people got drunk, so it was a good day.

 

Since then our adventures have been mostly school based, but as my time here turns from days to weeks, I have made some interesting, important, non adventure related observations:

1. This city is obsessed with cleanliness. There are crews of people walking down the streets with brooms all day long, and there is ZERO trash in the streets. In addition, the city washes the sidewalks everyday. Nevertheless, this city as a whole has a major B.O. problem. I don’t know what it is, but it just doesn’t seem acceptable. Moreover, at different times we’ll catch strange whiffs of poop or other similarly bad smells. It really is an anomaly.
2. The sidewalks here are really dangerous. As aforementioned, the city washes the sidewalks everyday and afterwards they are extremely slippery because they are made of tile, not cement. Luckily, we have to be at class every morning at 9 and therefore walk on them directly after the cleansing process. I lose my footing a lot and cuss often on the way to school. Some other sidewalks are really steep and composed of cobblestone, which is dangerous for other reasons. We’ve noticed that the elderly folk here have a whole different level of competency than those at home.
3. Food here is really cheap.
4. German tourists wear their clothing too tight.
5. People in this city eat helado like it’s their day job. There are probably at least two heladerias on any given block.
6. In this city, if you take a word and can add –eria onto the end of it, it’s a shop. Some examples include: heladeria, libreria, papeleria, panaderia, pasteleria, joyeria…you get my gyst.

 

Last week a bunch of us walked up into Sacromonte, one of the three old residential areas in Granada. It is a “gypsy” village, in which the houses are actual caves built into the mountainside. Magical, right?! Wrong. They look just like normal houses, and no one who lives there is even a gypsy. I feel like I was gypped. J. Had to do it.

 

In conclusion, on a more personal note, Sydney and I have been watching WAY too much True Blood for our own good, and are completely addicted to it. We are also in our first week of IES classes, and will begin classes at the university on the 28^th of September. The idea that in the next two weeks some 70,000 students will descend upon this city and that we will have to assimilate and adapt to their way of life is terrifying, but I think we’ll get the hang of it. Both of us are starting to get the hang of speaking Spanish, but that doesn’t mean the discouraging moments have disappeared. Today, after I talked to the doorman for 25 minutes and understood about 7 words, he told me he was speaking slowly for me and that I was really great at Spanish. Discouraging. But things are always looking up! It snowed this week in the Sierra Nevada, and we can see it from our school. Granada is really wonderful.

 

 

Hot Milk and Cold Jacuzzis

September 5, 2009

6:00 PM

Location: Fontiveros St. in the home stay

 

It’s been a couple days since entry one, and I have some free time (post siesta, pre camino) to write a little.

 

After 13 hours of waiting in airports/sitting on planes, I arrived on Thursday afternoon in first class from Madrid to Granada. Let me be the first to say that first class is not all that it is cut out to be. First of all, I was the only one sitting there and probably the only American on the plane (talk about entitled), second of all, there was no advantage to sitting there except I think they gave me a choice of a snack which I thought was ham and cheese, but which was actually smoked salmon and basil. Surprise! I hated myself in those moments. But walking off the plane erased all my negative memories of my weird flight. The plane pulled to a stop in the middle of the Tarmac and two chair cars rolled into place by the front and rear doors. Obviously Arrested Development and the Bluth Family stair car came to mind when I saw them rolling up. We stepped off the plane into the bright, hot Granada sun that beamed down onto the black pavement. We were sort of led, sort of expected to find our own way, down the tarmac to a tiny door that entered into the baggage claim. Walking with your suitcase in hand on pavement usually only touched by airplanes, airline equipment, and airline personnel is a feeling unlike any other. I felt like I was in heaven. I took a cab to our hotel which was a welcome relief after the disorganization of “Bestplace” (=worstplace) hostel in London. It actually wasn’t that bad.

 

Hostal Nuevas Naciones was waiting for me with arms open. Sydney was already sleeping in our room (yes, all ours!) when I got there. A shower and AC had never felt so awesome as it did that day. At 10:00 after a short nap, we found some dinner, didn’t understand a word our waiter said, decided there was room for improvement when it came to our

 conversational Spanish, and rushed back to the hostel for a pretty sweet 11 hour sleep. The next day took us out and about through the city streets of old Granada, and when I say it is beautiful, I do not kid around! Everything is clean, beautiful, old, and awesome (except for the ladies who “read our palms” without us asking them to and then stole 10 Euro from me and 5 from Sydney, assholes). We had no idea where we were and were pointing and asking each other questions like silly Americans and didn’t realize until later in the day that we had actually been looking at the Alhambra for the last couple of hours and were trying to get to it but couldn’t find our ways. Doesn’t matter, I’m over it.

 

That evening Sydney and I became official on facebook after our date to Plaza de San 

Nicholas en Albayzín, the first, and oldest part of Granada across the river from the Alhambra. The sweet Dutch man who ran our hostal with his wife informed us that the Plaza was a great spot to watch the sun set on the Alhambra and listen to live music. Afterwards, he said, we could get dinner up in the old city. He was right in a big way. We walked up into the old city huffing and puffing (it’s very hilly up in there. Duh, otherwise when we got to the top it wouldn’t have a good view!) and arrived at the most beautiful lookout I’ve ever seen. You can see the whole  old central part of Granada and the Alhambra. On this particular clear night, the sun set just right on the Alhambra causing it to give off a yellow/orange glow (just what Mr. Holland told us), and the moon shone brightly in the sky next to it. As we watched a Spanish band played guitar, cajon and hand clapping in 

the Plaza. One guy had a mullet, the other a half up half down hair do, and I’m pretty sure one of the band members was akin to the water boy of a football team, except he walked around with a lit cigarette and put it into whichever band member’s mouth wanted it so they wouldn’t have to take their hands off their instruments. Great job, if you ask me. The whole thing was pretty perfect.

 

Eventually we headed down, got some food, bought some helado, where we ran into language misunderstanding two, and then went to bed, ready to get up the next day for our 12:00 bus to Malaga.

 

We got to the Bus station at 12:15. I bought a 1:15 bus ticket. Sydney bought one for 1:30. It was awkward. I guess I had gotten the last one. Nevertheless, the bus ride was beautiful, and I sat next to a man who smelled awful. The hillsides lined with olive trees rolled past us as I listened to my iPod and tried to ignore the stench of B.O. coming off homeboy to my right. At one point we pulled off the highway into a town and stopped in front of a restaurant. A couple people got off. Thinking it was a pit stop of some sort, I considered getting of to use los aseos, but decided I didn’t want to wake my seatmate, so I stayed on. Lucky thing, because the minute the people got off, the bus pulled away. Uhhh…what? Some cool parts of the bus trip: Really amazing countryside with huge hills and a bunch of what appeared to be marble quarries, a giant silhouette of a cow on top of a hill, the truck full of pigs that we passed, the weird fountains in that little town that had grass painted blue/green surrounding them, the fact that no one ever made it clear where we were going so I was pretty certain at one point that I was going to wind up in Madrid without knowing it, the sweet houses perched really high up on the mountains. Sydney’s bus arrived only 5 minutes after mine and we got into a cab to the hotel. He drove us like five minutes from the front of the bus station to the back, the location of the hotel. Great. Thanks for letting us know, friend. He probably actually did, but we didn’t understand.

 

After an awkward meeting of other Americans and a short info session about phones at 630, Sydney and I decided to check out the “Gym” on floor six. It was a one door room with a sign on it that said ‘Gym.’ We walked in and it had two work out bikes with unadjustable seats that were too high and a weird apparatus for doing situps or something. It also had about a thousand towels stacked up decoratively in a huge shelving unit on the wall. We decided to check out the spa instead. It had a Jacuzzi, steam room, sauna, outdoor terrace. It was definitely a hidden gem. Out on the terrace, aided by a couple of the towels we found in the “gym,” Sydney led us through 8 minute buns and 8 minute abs, both of which she has down by memory. Afterwards we changed into our bathing suits to take a dip in the hot tub only to find out that Jacuzzi does not always = hot tub, but rather sometimes = kinda cold tub. That was the case there. I have to admit, though, it was pretty pleasant in there. We decided it was opposite day always in Spain, because the Jacuzzis are cold and the milk is warm.

 

Our orientation day one went well and yesterday we arrived back in Granada to our home stay. Our family is really nice, and we each have our own rooms. I do miss the hNN AC, though. Classes were also great today, even though we basically didn’t talk at all and our professora led us on a tour of the area, spewing out the most obscure historical facts I’ve ever h

eard and not understood in my life. It didn’t really matter, though. This city is beautiful. Spanish rocks. I’m off to go on a walking tour with the group at 7. Hopefully I don’t slip on the cuestas (steep inclined paths).

A next day amendment to this post:

After taking a walk today, three things must be noted about spain:

1. The Alladin fad caught on strong here and has people completely sucked in. The Alladin pants here are all the rage.

2. Today I saw two dogs stuck together by the butt. I dunno how it happened, but neither owner seemed to be that upset. That's not something to note about Spain, just something to note.

3. Mullets are very, very in here.