Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Blog's not done yet!
Do not fear, my blog's not done yet! There's still a lot I haven't written about...Portugal, Scotland, Ireland, Greece, Rome, and hospitals. In the meantime, remember Manolo from choir? Well here he is!
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Mueres?
At around 3:00 am last night (except a few weeks ago), a friend and I were walking along the river on the way home. A guy approached us, and kindly explained that he needed help; something was going on with his car (we did not understand his fast Spanish). He was being very nice, but we didn’t understand the problem so we turned to leave. In defeat, the man (mid-twenties, white, blond, small, cute) dropped his nice-guy act and tried to be scary. “Tengo una pistola,” he said, sticking his “gun” through his shirt. He turned to Daniel and yelled, “¡Dame dinero o mueres (give me money or you die)!” The situation got a lot less scary when he accidentally exposed his gun, which was actually a bright blue inhaler. Unfazed, he kept demanding money but reluctantly admitted defeat when I asked to see his gun. I was considering suggesting that he choose either the nice-and-needs-help routine or the scary-has-a-gun one for the future, because they didn’t mix well, but opted for getting the hell our of there instead. The important lesson learned was that bringing a guy along doesn’t automatically guarantee safety, and I’m glad that I got to learn this lesson through the least threatening mugger in the world.
Paris!!! Finally!!!
Sasha and I just got back (at the time of initial writing) from an absolutely wonderful trip to Paris. Surprise! We fell in love with the city! It was perfectly picturesque, just like in the movies, complete with outdoor cafes, accordion players and bridges over the Seine. It was also great to be traveling again and to get a change of scenery. This trip proved Sasha and I to be great travel buddies. I was sure we would have some sort of conflict, because we’re good friends and we’d be exhausted and together non-stop for a week, but there was really nothing negative. Our traveling desires and our wants and needs were identical. This trip was also another accomplishment for our quickly advancing independence; we kept reminding each other that we [almost] pulled off a perfect Paris trip without too much experience. We were also proud of how frugal we were! It certainly helped having free housing, but we ate well for little money and got in free at a lot of tourist sites (many cashiers deemed us European enough to get the European student discount: free). I really wished I spoke French, and managed to switch my Rs’ pronunciation to attempt a few phrases. We went from saying “merci” with a Spanish R to “gracias” with a French R once we returned to Spain. In [only] four crepes, three baguettes, and two chunks of cheese we had an unbeatable trip to Paris.
Day 1:
My day began at 5:23 am Friday morning, April 3rd when I woke up to head to Paris. I love waking up that early for exciting things, and going to Paris certainly counts. I walked through the dark to the Bus 5 stop near my house, which was surprisingly crowded. I took this bus to the airport shuttle stop, where more young people were gathering. The airport shuttle was 80% students from my program, and almost everyone was going to either Paris or Italy. It turns out our flight was a popular one, we knew half the plane! Sasha joined the shuttle at a different stop, and we soon arrived, for my first time, to the Seville airport. After a short flight and the smoothest landing of my life (yeah Transavia.com!), we found ourselves in the Orly Sud airport. A couple trains later, we emerged from the Gare de Nord train station in Paris. Our first move, per the recommendation of Sasha’s mom, was to leave our luggage in a locker at the station. We couldn’t go to our host’s house until 7:00, so we were glad to see that this was an option. We immediately set out walking to explore the Montmartre area. Ten steps into our journey, we witnessed something that neither of us ever had before: a mass Muslim prayer. There were hundreds of people, some kneeling on rugs, some on cardboard boxes, all facing east. We were definitely culture shocked, but we were so glad to have seen such an event. Diversity, in general, was a nice change. We headed right towards Sacre Cour, the famous cathedral with the “onion bulbs” atop the hill. This was a Friday afternoon, and church was in session. I was glad our timing was right, because the music was a sight for sore...ears. The nuns were singing, and the audience joined in. This in itself was truly incredible. The cathedral’s acoustics have been artificially boosted, so the entire place was filled with the eerily beautiful sound. Sacre Cour is a good tourist spot because of its view of the city. Unfortuately it was very cloudy out, and we could not see much. We could still, however, appreciate being in the exact spot where Amelie executed the wild goose chase for Nino, and were unfortunately a little too sleepy to reenact it. At this point, desperate for our first crepe, Sasha and I wandered around the little Montmartre streets, comparing the abundant crepe stands. We chose one, and sampled our first “crepe complete” (jam, egg, and cheese). [Note: proofreading this now. Took several times reading over that last statement to find the problem. “Jam” is not “jamón” in English. They luckily did not put jelly with the egg and cheese, but rather ham.] These were, of course, incredible. After getting a feeling of Montmartre, we headed back to the train station to retrieve our luggage before crossing the city. This proved to be easier dicho than hecho. The Gare du Nord station is SO confusing. We wasted so much time trying to figure out how to buy tickets, how to find the metro, etc., and with the addition of undercaffeination and the reunion with heavy backpacks, we were pretty cranky. We finally got on the metro and emerged at St. Michel. All crankiness disappeared when we caught our first glimpse of the Notre Dame. We walked around this area more, and stumbled across the fabulous Shakespeare and Co. bookstore. I told Sasha that my mom lived above it when she was studying abroad in Paris (my mom later corrected the story: she had gone in and they asked her if she was there about renting the room. No residence ever happened). After a while, we proceeded on the 12 train to the 15eme district, where we would be staying. Our hosts were Florence and Jean-François Allegre, friends of Sasha’s family friends. They are a couple in their sixties: Florence teaches high school students and Jean-François is a children’s book publisher. Needless to say, since he is a French children’s book publisher, Jean-François is a Tintin fanatic, and I was thrilled to see action figures all over the house. Florence speaks very good English, and Jean-François understands it pretty well. When we got there, thirsty, Florence wanted to ask if we wanted seltzer or plain water. Due to the language barrier, she asked us if we wanted water with or without “pshhhhh,” which of course entered Sasha’s and my vocabulary forever.
After settling in, Sasha and I went out for a quick bite. We headed to the middle of many tourist sites so we could see them by night. Of course, we stumbled into the most expensive area to look for a cheap dinner. On top of that, many restaurants were closing and we were still on Spanish time. We finally settled for the cheapest option: twelve euro salads (amazing ones) at a typical French outdoor restaurant. We went home and slept sooo well. It was great to have Sasha, because she is an experienced yoga-doer. She led a little stretching session before going to bed each night.
Day 2:
Saturday morning we headed to the St. Michel area. There was one thing we wanted: Nutella crepes. We succeeded in procuring them, and experienced a new level of heaven. We then headed to St. Michel to meet up with our tour. Ally had told us about New Europe tours. In several major European cities, guides run four-hour walking tours around the city for free. At the end, participants tip the guide what they would have paid for the tour. This was the highlight of the trip, for sure. Our tour guide, Philip, was from New Zealand and studied in London or something. He was fabulous: he was funny and really animated, and gave these huge interactive historical demonstrations (Sasha got to be Napoleon’s wife at one point). We walked all over the city, saw everything, and learned so much about French history. Some stuff we learned:
1. Napoleon’s tomb is in the Invalides. He is buried below floor level, so to see him one must bow down to the fallen emperor. Hitler visited Paris, and had no interest in seeing the major sights. Instead, he went to see Napoleon’s tomb. Refusing to bow down to him, staff installed mirrors on the ceiling so Hitler could see him.
2. Standing in front of the Louvre, there are the three arches perfectly lined up, each half the height and width of the arch proceeding it (the Arc du Triomphe being the middle one). However, one German tourist pointed out that they aren’t perfectly lined up. After some research, she was proven correct. Government officials talked about demolishing the Louvre and rebuilding it ten feet to the right. It was decided eventually that this would be far too expensive (I think the figure was about ten million euros), so it was left out of line. However, a building is currently being moved in Berlin for the same reason.
3. There are many faces carved into one bridge and the area around it. The story behind it, of course, was that the king threw a party and everyone got pretty drunk. The king hired the artist in attendance to sketch the guests. These carvings legendarily depict the King’s drunk friends. Philip declared these as the first Facebook.
4. To determine how the subject of a statue died, look at the horse below him. If the horse is standing still, the rider died of natural causes. If the horse is in a trot, or has any leg up, the rider was murdered. If the horse is bucking, the rider died in battle.
5. The roundabout around the Arc du Triomphe is the most dangerous in the world. It has twelve roads and no signs. Therefore, there is some sort of accident every thirty minutes. Philip said that, statistically speaking, if we climb the Arc and watch for half an hour, we’ll be sure to see an accident. Sasha and I tried and didn’t see our own accident, but we saw the remnants: a police car parked next to a car pulled over.
6. The Eternal Flame marking the tomb of the unnamed soldier under the Arc du Triomphe has not been eternally lit. It went out when a Mexican tourist, upset that France beat Brazil in the World Cup finals, urinated on the flame. He was put right on a plane, never to return to France. A few years later, Australian tourists were caught cooking hot dogs over the Eternal Flame. They, too, were put on a plane, never to return to France. Philip suggested that if we’re ever stuck in Paris, penniless, with no way to get home, we simply have to somehow tamper with the flame to get a free ride home. Sasha and I regretted not doing this when we were stuck in Valence.
And so much more. I highly recommend this tour for anyone who’s in Paris (or Madrid, Munich, and others, google “New Europe Tours”). We were disappointed that we had already done Montmartre, because Philip was leading a Montmartre tour that evening. Philip, Matt from Vegas and I discussed other tours he could create. Because of how often it came up, we decided that a Paris Beheading tour would be fit. There were also several instances of castration. We combined these tours into the Severed Appendages of Paris tour, which would surely make millions.
After the tour, Sasha and I proudly got kicked out of the most expensive hotel in Paris. Philip pointed it out and told us that it’s easy to stay there for free. All you need to do is win the Tour du France! We entered just to use the bathroom, but the doorman immediately suspected that we weren’t guests and asked us to leave. To cope with our defeat, we headed straight for Café Angelina: a spot recommended by many trusted tourists (Ella Reily Stocker and Tito Crafts). In line, we admired the little pastries, many of which were laden with golf leaf. We ordered the Chocolat African, which was amazing, thick hot chocolate that came with a fancy dish of whipped cream (Tito explained that you can put it in the hot chocolate, eat it with your spoon, or just eat it with your face). We thought we ordered a fruit tart to go with it, but it was really just more chocolate. When we left we were literally drunk on chocolate, clutching our stomachs.
Before the sugar crashed, we conquered the Musee d’Orsay. This museum, set up in a former train station, has the biggest collection of Impressionist art in the world. Since the galleries close earlier than the whole building, we had a mere forty-five minutes to see it all. Sasha completed her first “uh-huh, uh-huh” tour, which was luckily enough to seee the greats. We were so excited to see the famous pieces of art in here, and were equally glad we shared each other’s enthusiasm (this was the art quota test of our travel companionship). We agreed that we are lucky to have been brought up appreciating art and knowing these artists. This museum would not have been as exciting if I had not regularly watched “Linnea in Monet’s Garden” as a kid and if Sasha had not watched “Brian in Van Gogh’s Patio” or whatever.
After the museum (and a sugar crash and search for caffeine), it was time to conquer the Eiffel Tower. We waited in line forever (forty-five minutes) to find out that we were in the elevator line. We crossed to the stairs line, where there was literally no line. We stomped up the stairs and got over the line error by the first floor. It was so beautiful, seeing the city lit up at night. Once at the top, we celebrated by finishing the chocolate tart from Angelina’s that we had snuck into my bag. This was a truly Parisian moment, reveling in the fact that we were on top of THE Eiffel Tower in THE Paris. Furthermore, ever hour on the hour the flashy lights go off, which is absolutely beautiful. We were in line for the 9:00 flashing, on the tower for the 10:00, and we had just gotten down for the 11:00. Climbing the Eiffel Tower is my one memory from my last visit to Paris, for which I was about three years old. I clearly remember climbing the stairs and seeing something yellow. I was glad to see that my memory did not fail me and that the upper elevator was, in fact, yellow.
Day 3:
Sunday was busy. We got up early and got on the metro to the Louvre, which is free the first Sunday of every month. We planned on beating the crowds by entering through the basement metro entrance. Every other tourist planned this as well, and the metro was very crowded. Luckily, we booked it and managed to beat all lines. Phillip our tour guide had warned us that one “cannot conquer the Louvre, the Louvre conquers you.” This was the exact experience we had. We went first to the Mona Lisa. It was...disappointing. It was tiny, in glass, in more glass, and with a rope creating a large buffer zone. The place was packed, and we had to fight our way in to see her. The only reason I ever wanted to see her live was to get really close, but with all the protection there was no way to do so. There was a bad glare, so fans are really better off seeing any reproduced version of her. We saw a bunch of the museum (including some, but not enough, Spanish stuff) and got yelled at for eating our apples on a windowseat. In the Louvre we bumped into two groups of people we know! First were family friends of Sasha who are teaching in Granada this semester. Secondly were a few Clarkies who are studying in Scotland. Crazy!
After we accepted defeat a few hours in, we decided to head to the train station to proceed to Versailles. On the way, I yielded my biggest success on the language front: I asked a man with a baguette “ou est baguette?” (“where is baguette?”) to which he simply pointed to the bakery right in front of us. Our baguette (for dinner) was half gone by the time we arrived in Versailles. I had thought that Versailles as a town was the tourist attraction, not just the chateau. After the Louvre we were so pooped that we were glad there it was just one stop. The Chateau was obviously incredible, and between the audioguide and Phillip’s tour from Saturday we learned quite a bit. We walked around town a little bit and bought another baguette, some brie, and a bottle of cheap wine for dinner. We took the train back into Paris and set up on the pedestrian bridge. We shared our stupendous supper as we saw the Sunday sun set over the sparkling Seine. The night concluded with a stroll through the lit-up Champs-Élysées.
Day 4:
Monday was our day to do some big tourist things. We started out at our favorite crepe place on St. Germaine then headed to Notre Dame. We had just beat the crowd; when we left there were a million people waiting. It was nice to be awake in Notre Dame, the last time I was there I had been asleep on my dad’s shoulders. We unfortunately didn’t climb the tower because the separate line was very long, so there’s something to do next time. After a panini and a coffee, we went to Saint Chapelle. I had not heard of this church before, but it was one of the highlights of the trip. The second floor features fifteen massive stained glass windows telling the story of the bible. Each window is very intricate and has different shapes inside. The light is incredible, and it is incredible even for those non-religious folk (as Philip had warned us). We proceeded to the Marais district to meet up with two co-workers from last summer: Erin Q, my closest friend at the camp where I worked, and Inger from Denmark who was visiting. Erin is studying abroad in Paris. With them we walked through this district where there were un monton of little street shops. Included in these was a vintage clothes store, which is one of the things I miss most about the states. I left with a red felt wraparound skirt and a matching red Madeline-ish hat. We ended at the town hall were a protest against Bolonia, a European education reform, was going on. I only knew about it from graffiti in the bathrooms of the University of Seville, but Erin explained it better. The protest took the form of walking in circles through the courtyard in front of the town hall, so we participated for a few laps.
After bidding farewell, Sasha and I proceeded to the Arc de Triomphe. It took us a while to figure out how to get onto the island in the rotary on which sits the structure. We finally found a secret underground tunnel that brought us under the road. We climbed and admired the view. As Philip suggested, we watched for awhile in hopes of seeing a car accident, but all we saw was a police car parked next to a pulled over car, which we believe to be the immediate aftermath. That night we were going to stay for dinner with Florence and Jean-François, so we searched for a dessert to bring. Pastry shops in Paris are ubiquitous until you need one. We finally found a nice place, and were enthralled by the cakes and petit fours in the window. Because of the language barrier, I drew a diagram of the display, and colored in the ones we wanted. The lady was amused, but didn’t really get it. Sasha’s family friend and Florence herself had both warned us against Florence’s cooking (“I’m a bad cooker”) yet our dinner was spectacular. It was nice to really have time to chat with them and hear about all their trips. We learned that the amazing photographs around the house were all taken by Florence. After dinner, Jean-François ran off and returned with two beautiful Paris pictures books published by his company. I was really touched that he gave them to us, because we didn’t know him very well, and we had just crashed there for a few nights. I have learned some new French vocabulary from reading the book, which explains all of the beautifully illustrated Paris sights.
Day 4:
Tuesday was sadly our last day. We planned to leave our stuff at the apartment, doing some last things, and coming back for it before the train. However, Jean-Francois invited us to leave our luggage at his office downtown. This was very helpful, since we’d have much more time. On top of that, Florence offered to drive us in. It was great to get a car ride through Paris to purely look around and not have to navigate. We arrived at Jean-François’ office, which was absolutely wonderful. It was a complete children’s book workshop. There were posters and books everywhere, the walls were covered with children’s book characters, the place smelled like paper, and everyone kindly greeted us. We dumped our stuff and headed to the Tintin goods store. It was a wonderful place, with SO much Tintin stuff, but it was all very expensive. Jean-François must have spent hundreds of euros on his collection. We proceeded to find our last crepes and get the last views of some landmarks. Our primary goal was to find Rue Mouftard. After a very long time of searching, we found it. It was a cute little street market with fruit, fish, and chocolate abound. We headed next to the catacombs, the most highly recommended stop. We waited in line for a while and took turns ducking out to buy bread and cheese; thanks to the fluorescent pink hair adorned tourists in front of us (although little did we know how much we’d be seeing them) it was easy to find our spot in line. The catacombs are AWESOME. People were getting sick way back when because the cemeteries were overflowing. They moved all the bodies to the old mines. Some guy arranged the bones to fit as much as possible; as a result the walls are lined with stacks of neatly arranged bones. It was hard to resist playing Jenga with some ulnas. Some had patterns of skulls built in, some had crosses. It was kind of gross at first, but also just really really awesome.
After the catacombs we booked it to the Rodin museum which we refused to leave Paris without seeing. It had cleared up by then (it had been raining all day) and we had a beautiful sunny view of The Thinker. The quick stop at this museum was a great way to end our trip to Paris. Content, we headed back to J-F’s office to get our luggage. As we descended the office building with our luggage, we ran into Florence who was walking by in case she saw us. We were pleased to see her again to fill her in on our last day, and she was glad to have found us for shoe opinions. Her son is getting married in June, so she was deep in preparations. The current stage was shoe-selection. She brought us to the store where she showed us some adorable flats that we both approved.
Sasha and I headed towards the Gare du Lyon train station and stopped for Chinese take-out on the way. We boarded the train to Valencia (so we thought) with thoughts and dreams of Paris swimming through our heads. We hummed “La Vie en Rose” until we fell asleep.
Day 1:
My day began at 5:23 am Friday morning, April 3rd when I woke up to head to Paris. I love waking up that early for exciting things, and going to Paris certainly counts. I walked through the dark to the Bus 5 stop near my house, which was surprisingly crowded. I took this bus to the airport shuttle stop, where more young people were gathering. The airport shuttle was 80% students from my program, and almost everyone was going to either Paris or Italy. It turns out our flight was a popular one, we knew half the plane! Sasha joined the shuttle at a different stop, and we soon arrived, for my first time, to the Seville airport. After a short flight and the smoothest landing of my life (yeah Transavia.com!), we found ourselves in the Orly Sud airport. A couple trains later, we emerged from the Gare de Nord train station in Paris. Our first move, per the recommendation of Sasha’s mom, was to leave our luggage in a locker at the station. We couldn’t go to our host’s house until 7:00, so we were glad to see that this was an option. We immediately set out walking to explore the Montmartre area. Ten steps into our journey, we witnessed something that neither of us ever had before: a mass Muslim prayer. There were hundreds of people, some kneeling on rugs, some on cardboard boxes, all facing east. We were definitely culture shocked, but we were so glad to have seen such an event. Diversity, in general, was a nice change. We headed right towards Sacre Cour, the famous cathedral with the “onion bulbs” atop the hill. This was a Friday afternoon, and church was in session. I was glad our timing was right, because the music was a sight for sore...ears. The nuns were singing, and the audience joined in. This in itself was truly incredible. The cathedral’s acoustics have been artificially boosted, so the entire place was filled with the eerily beautiful sound. Sacre Cour is a good tourist spot because of its view of the city. Unfortuately it was very cloudy out, and we could not see much. We could still, however, appreciate being in the exact spot where Amelie executed the wild goose chase for Nino, and were unfortunately a little too sleepy to reenact it. At this point, desperate for our first crepe, Sasha and I wandered around the little Montmartre streets, comparing the abundant crepe stands. We chose one, and sampled our first “crepe complete” (jam, egg, and cheese). [Note: proofreading this now. Took several times reading over that last statement to find the problem. “Jam” is not “jamón” in English. They luckily did not put jelly with the egg and cheese, but rather ham.] These were, of course, incredible. After getting a feeling of Montmartre, we headed back to the train station to retrieve our luggage before crossing the city. This proved to be easier dicho than hecho. The Gare du Nord station is SO confusing. We wasted so much time trying to figure out how to buy tickets, how to find the metro, etc., and with the addition of undercaffeination and the reunion with heavy backpacks, we were pretty cranky. We finally got on the metro and emerged at St. Michel. All crankiness disappeared when we caught our first glimpse of the Notre Dame. We walked around this area more, and stumbled across the fabulous Shakespeare and Co. bookstore. I told Sasha that my mom lived above it when she was studying abroad in Paris (my mom later corrected the story: she had gone in and they asked her if she was there about renting the room. No residence ever happened). After a while, we proceeded on the 12 train to the 15eme district, where we would be staying. Our hosts were Florence and Jean-François Allegre, friends of Sasha’s family friends. They are a couple in their sixties: Florence teaches high school students and Jean-François is a children’s book publisher. Needless to say, since he is a French children’s book publisher, Jean-François is a Tintin fanatic, and I was thrilled to see action figures all over the house. Florence speaks very good English, and Jean-François understands it pretty well. When we got there, thirsty, Florence wanted to ask if we wanted seltzer or plain water. Due to the language barrier, she asked us if we wanted water with or without “pshhhhh,” which of course entered Sasha’s and my vocabulary forever.
After settling in, Sasha and I went out for a quick bite. We headed to the middle of many tourist sites so we could see them by night. Of course, we stumbled into the most expensive area to look for a cheap dinner. On top of that, many restaurants were closing and we were still on Spanish time. We finally settled for the cheapest option: twelve euro salads (amazing ones) at a typical French outdoor restaurant. We went home and slept sooo well. It was great to have Sasha, because she is an experienced yoga-doer. She led a little stretching session before going to bed each night.
Day 2:
Saturday morning we headed to the St. Michel area. There was one thing we wanted: Nutella crepes. We succeeded in procuring them, and experienced a new level of heaven. We then headed to St. Michel to meet up with our tour. Ally had told us about New Europe tours. In several major European cities, guides run four-hour walking tours around the city for free. At the end, participants tip the guide what they would have paid for the tour. This was the highlight of the trip, for sure. Our tour guide, Philip, was from New Zealand and studied in London or something. He was fabulous: he was funny and really animated, and gave these huge interactive historical demonstrations (Sasha got to be Napoleon’s wife at one point). We walked all over the city, saw everything, and learned so much about French history. Some stuff we learned:
1. Napoleon’s tomb is in the Invalides. He is buried below floor level, so to see him one must bow down to the fallen emperor. Hitler visited Paris, and had no interest in seeing the major sights. Instead, he went to see Napoleon’s tomb. Refusing to bow down to him, staff installed mirrors on the ceiling so Hitler could see him.
2. Standing in front of the Louvre, there are the three arches perfectly lined up, each half the height and width of the arch proceeding it (the Arc du Triomphe being the middle one). However, one German tourist pointed out that they aren’t perfectly lined up. After some research, she was proven correct. Government officials talked about demolishing the Louvre and rebuilding it ten feet to the right. It was decided eventually that this would be far too expensive (I think the figure was about ten million euros), so it was left out of line. However, a building is currently being moved in Berlin for the same reason.
3. There are many faces carved into one bridge and the area around it. The story behind it, of course, was that the king threw a party and everyone got pretty drunk. The king hired the artist in attendance to sketch the guests. These carvings legendarily depict the King’s drunk friends. Philip declared these as the first Facebook.
4. To determine how the subject of a statue died, look at the horse below him. If the horse is standing still, the rider died of natural causes. If the horse is in a trot, or has any leg up, the rider was murdered. If the horse is bucking, the rider died in battle.
5. The roundabout around the Arc du Triomphe is the most dangerous in the world. It has twelve roads and no signs. Therefore, there is some sort of accident every thirty minutes. Philip said that, statistically speaking, if we climb the Arc and watch for half an hour, we’ll be sure to see an accident. Sasha and I tried and didn’t see our own accident, but we saw the remnants: a police car parked next to a car pulled over.
6. The Eternal Flame marking the tomb of the unnamed soldier under the Arc du Triomphe has not been eternally lit. It went out when a Mexican tourist, upset that France beat Brazil in the World Cup finals, urinated on the flame. He was put right on a plane, never to return to France. A few years later, Australian tourists were caught cooking hot dogs over the Eternal Flame. They, too, were put on a plane, never to return to France. Philip suggested that if we’re ever stuck in Paris, penniless, with no way to get home, we simply have to somehow tamper with the flame to get a free ride home. Sasha and I regretted not doing this when we were stuck in Valence.
And so much more. I highly recommend this tour for anyone who’s in Paris (or Madrid, Munich, and others, google “New Europe Tours”). We were disappointed that we had already done Montmartre, because Philip was leading a Montmartre tour that evening. Philip, Matt from Vegas and I discussed other tours he could create. Because of how often it came up, we decided that a Paris Beheading tour would be fit. There were also several instances of castration. We combined these tours into the Severed Appendages of Paris tour, which would surely make millions.
After the tour, Sasha and I proudly got kicked out of the most expensive hotel in Paris. Philip pointed it out and told us that it’s easy to stay there for free. All you need to do is win the Tour du France! We entered just to use the bathroom, but the doorman immediately suspected that we weren’t guests and asked us to leave. To cope with our defeat, we headed straight for Café Angelina: a spot recommended by many trusted tourists (Ella Reily Stocker and Tito Crafts). In line, we admired the little pastries, many of which were laden with golf leaf. We ordered the Chocolat African, which was amazing, thick hot chocolate that came with a fancy dish of whipped cream (Tito explained that you can put it in the hot chocolate, eat it with your spoon, or just eat it with your face). We thought we ordered a fruit tart to go with it, but it was really just more chocolate. When we left we were literally drunk on chocolate, clutching our stomachs.
Before the sugar crashed, we conquered the Musee d’Orsay. This museum, set up in a former train station, has the biggest collection of Impressionist art in the world. Since the galleries close earlier than the whole building, we had a mere forty-five minutes to see it all. Sasha completed her first “uh-huh, uh-huh” tour, which was luckily enough to seee the greats. We were so excited to see the famous pieces of art in here, and were equally glad we shared each other’s enthusiasm (this was the art quota test of our travel companionship). We agreed that we are lucky to have been brought up appreciating art and knowing these artists. This museum would not have been as exciting if I had not regularly watched “Linnea in Monet’s Garden” as a kid and if Sasha had not watched “Brian in Van Gogh’s Patio” or whatever.
After the museum (and a sugar crash and search for caffeine), it was time to conquer the Eiffel Tower. We waited in line forever (forty-five minutes) to find out that we were in the elevator line. We crossed to the stairs line, where there was literally no line. We stomped up the stairs and got over the line error by the first floor. It was so beautiful, seeing the city lit up at night. Once at the top, we celebrated by finishing the chocolate tart from Angelina’s that we had snuck into my bag. This was a truly Parisian moment, reveling in the fact that we were on top of THE Eiffel Tower in THE Paris. Furthermore, ever hour on the hour the flashy lights go off, which is absolutely beautiful. We were in line for the 9:00 flashing, on the tower for the 10:00, and we had just gotten down for the 11:00. Climbing the Eiffel Tower is my one memory from my last visit to Paris, for which I was about three years old. I clearly remember climbing the stairs and seeing something yellow. I was glad to see that my memory did not fail me and that the upper elevator was, in fact, yellow.
Day 3:
Sunday was busy. We got up early and got on the metro to the Louvre, which is free the first Sunday of every month. We planned on beating the crowds by entering through the basement metro entrance. Every other tourist planned this as well, and the metro was very crowded. Luckily, we booked it and managed to beat all lines. Phillip our tour guide had warned us that one “cannot conquer the Louvre, the Louvre conquers you.” This was the exact experience we had. We went first to the Mona Lisa. It was...disappointing. It was tiny, in glass, in more glass, and with a rope creating a large buffer zone. The place was packed, and we had to fight our way in to see her. The only reason I ever wanted to see her live was to get really close, but with all the protection there was no way to do so. There was a bad glare, so fans are really better off seeing any reproduced version of her. We saw a bunch of the museum (including some, but not enough, Spanish stuff) and got yelled at for eating our apples on a windowseat. In the Louvre we bumped into two groups of people we know! First were family friends of Sasha who are teaching in Granada this semester. Secondly were a few Clarkies who are studying in Scotland. Crazy!
After we accepted defeat a few hours in, we decided to head to the train station to proceed to Versailles. On the way, I yielded my biggest success on the language front: I asked a man with a baguette “ou est baguette?” (“where is baguette?”) to which he simply pointed to the bakery right in front of us. Our baguette (for dinner) was half gone by the time we arrived in Versailles. I had thought that Versailles as a town was the tourist attraction, not just the chateau. After the Louvre we were so pooped that we were glad there it was just one stop. The Chateau was obviously incredible, and between the audioguide and Phillip’s tour from Saturday we learned quite a bit. We walked around town a little bit and bought another baguette, some brie, and a bottle of cheap wine for dinner. We took the train back into Paris and set up on the pedestrian bridge. We shared our stupendous supper as we saw the Sunday sun set over the sparkling Seine. The night concluded with a stroll through the lit-up Champs-Élysées.
Day 4:
Monday was our day to do some big tourist things. We started out at our favorite crepe place on St. Germaine then headed to Notre Dame. We had just beat the crowd; when we left there were a million people waiting. It was nice to be awake in Notre Dame, the last time I was there I had been asleep on my dad’s shoulders. We unfortunately didn’t climb the tower because the separate line was very long, so there’s something to do next time. After a panini and a coffee, we went to Saint Chapelle. I had not heard of this church before, but it was one of the highlights of the trip. The second floor features fifteen massive stained glass windows telling the story of the bible. Each window is very intricate and has different shapes inside. The light is incredible, and it is incredible even for those non-religious folk (as Philip had warned us). We proceeded to the Marais district to meet up with two co-workers from last summer: Erin Q, my closest friend at the camp where I worked, and Inger from Denmark who was visiting. Erin is studying abroad in Paris. With them we walked through this district where there were un monton of little street shops. Included in these was a vintage clothes store, which is one of the things I miss most about the states. I left with a red felt wraparound skirt and a matching red Madeline-ish hat. We ended at the town hall were a protest against Bolonia, a European education reform, was going on. I only knew about it from graffiti in the bathrooms of the University of Seville, but Erin explained it better. The protest took the form of walking in circles through the courtyard in front of the town hall, so we participated for a few laps.
After bidding farewell, Sasha and I proceeded to the Arc de Triomphe. It took us a while to figure out how to get onto the island in the rotary on which sits the structure. We finally found a secret underground tunnel that brought us under the road. We climbed and admired the view. As Philip suggested, we watched for awhile in hopes of seeing a car accident, but all we saw was a police car parked next to a pulled over car, which we believe to be the immediate aftermath. That night we were going to stay for dinner with Florence and Jean-François, so we searched for a dessert to bring. Pastry shops in Paris are ubiquitous until you need one. We finally found a nice place, and were enthralled by the cakes and petit fours in the window. Because of the language barrier, I drew a diagram of the display, and colored in the ones we wanted. The lady was amused, but didn’t really get it. Sasha’s family friend and Florence herself had both warned us against Florence’s cooking (“I’m a bad cooker”) yet our dinner was spectacular. It was nice to really have time to chat with them and hear about all their trips. We learned that the amazing photographs around the house were all taken by Florence. After dinner, Jean-François ran off and returned with two beautiful Paris pictures books published by his company. I was really touched that he gave them to us, because we didn’t know him very well, and we had just crashed there for a few nights. I have learned some new French vocabulary from reading the book, which explains all of the beautifully illustrated Paris sights.
Day 4:
Tuesday was sadly our last day. We planned to leave our stuff at the apartment, doing some last things, and coming back for it before the train. However, Jean-Francois invited us to leave our luggage at his office downtown. This was very helpful, since we’d have much more time. On top of that, Florence offered to drive us in. It was great to get a car ride through Paris to purely look around and not have to navigate. We arrived at Jean-François’ office, which was absolutely wonderful. It was a complete children’s book workshop. There were posters and books everywhere, the walls were covered with children’s book characters, the place smelled like paper, and everyone kindly greeted us. We dumped our stuff and headed to the Tintin goods store. It was a wonderful place, with SO much Tintin stuff, but it was all very expensive. Jean-François must have spent hundreds of euros on his collection. We proceeded to find our last crepes and get the last views of some landmarks. Our primary goal was to find Rue Mouftard. After a very long time of searching, we found it. It was a cute little street market with fruit, fish, and chocolate abound. We headed next to the catacombs, the most highly recommended stop. We waited in line for a while and took turns ducking out to buy bread and cheese; thanks to the fluorescent pink hair adorned tourists in front of us (although little did we know how much we’d be seeing them) it was easy to find our spot in line. The catacombs are AWESOME. People were getting sick way back when because the cemeteries were overflowing. They moved all the bodies to the old mines. Some guy arranged the bones to fit as much as possible; as a result the walls are lined with stacks of neatly arranged bones. It was hard to resist playing Jenga with some ulnas. Some had patterns of skulls built in, some had crosses. It was kind of gross at first, but also just really really awesome.
After the catacombs we booked it to the Rodin museum which we refused to leave Paris without seeing. It had cleared up by then (it had been raining all day) and we had a beautiful sunny view of The Thinker. The quick stop at this museum was a great way to end our trip to Paris. Content, we headed back to J-F’s office to get our luggage. As we descended the office building with our luggage, we ran into Florence who was walking by in case she saw us. We were pleased to see her again to fill her in on our last day, and she was glad to have found us for shoe opinions. Her son is getting married in June, so she was deep in preparations. The current stage was shoe-selection. She brought us to the store where she showed us some adorable flats that we both approved.
Sasha and I headed towards the Gare du Lyon train station and stopped for Chinese take-out on the way. We boarded the train to Valencia (so we thought) with thoughts and dreams of Paris swimming through our heads. We hummed “La Vie en Rose” until we fell asleep.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Cute Host-Sister Moment
Being the youngest in my family, I have never been able to experience my "little sister's" woes. Esperanza (age 8) and I had a nice bonding time the other day. She had several cards that she had made spread out on the table, as she was preparing to attend a birthday party that afternoon. She instructed me to choose my favorite, and I naturally chose the one with big read hearts that read "Te quiero."
A few minutes later, Esperanza came into my room. She closed the door, closed the window (so her parents on the patio couldn't hear) and began frantically pacing around my room. She said that she needed help, and that she was going to tell me a secret. The problem was that she felt that if she gave Jesús, the birthday boy, a card that said "te quiero," everyone would laugh at her. The secret was that Jesús "[le] ha gustado desde hace siempre" (she has always liked him. You know, LIKED him liked him). I understood the dilemma. She wanted to make the card special without being the laughing stock of el Parque de los Principes. We discussed his interests, and Esperanza said that he likes Sevilla (the soccer team, of course). I tried telling her that it would never work between them, since her family supports Betis, but it didn't translate well. I suggested that she draw the Sevilla logo on the more platonic card with the flowers. She loved this idea, thanked me profusely, and set up on my floor to draw it. We constructed the perfect heading: "Feliz Cumpleaños, Jesús! Tu amiga, Esperanza."
When she had finished, she ran into the living room to show her parents. That's when the truth came out: Esperanza had never been invited to this birthday party. She had heard about it from another kid, but never received her own invitation. She started crying, and I could feel my heart break. There is nothing worse than finding out that the man of your dreams does not want you at his party. Poor Esperanza.
Despite the sad ending, I was pleased that Esperanza confided in me, and that we had some girl-bonding time. I really need to spend more time with her before I leave.
A few minutes later, Esperanza came into my room. She closed the door, closed the window (so her parents on the patio couldn't hear) and began frantically pacing around my room. She said that she needed help, and that she was going to tell me a secret. The problem was that she felt that if she gave Jesús, the birthday boy, a card that said "te quiero," everyone would laugh at her. The secret was that Jesús "[le] ha gustado desde hace siempre" (she has always liked him. You know, LIKED him liked him). I understood the dilemma. She wanted to make the card special without being the laughing stock of el Parque de los Principes. We discussed his interests, and Esperanza said that he likes Sevilla (the soccer team, of course). I tried telling her that it would never work between them, since her family supports Betis, but it didn't translate well. I suggested that she draw the Sevilla logo on the more platonic card with the flowers. She loved this idea, thanked me profusely, and set up on my floor to draw it. We constructed the perfect heading: "Feliz Cumpleaños, Jesús! Tu amiga, Esperanza."
When she had finished, she ran into the living room to show her parents. That's when the truth came out: Esperanza had never been invited to this birthday party. She had heard about it from another kid, but never received her own invitation. She started crying, and I could feel my heart break. There is nothing worse than finding out that the man of your dreams does not want you at his party. Poor Esperanza.
Despite the sad ending, I was pleased that Esperanza confided in me, and that we had some girl-bonding time. I really need to spend more time with her before I leave.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Crazy Travel Plans
I am very stressed out about my next trip. I am going to explain the entire thing, for two reasons: 1) to get organized and hopefully feel less overwhelmed, and 2) so my readers can tell me it will be okay and share their knowledge of latenight international shuttles and such.
I have plans to go to Ireland with some friends from my program. However, I decided to head north earlier to visit an old family friend in Scotland. I am at the mercy of Ryanair, because I had to change my flight to Dublin rather than cancel it and get a new one. Here's the plan:
I. Monday, April 27th
-Train from Sevilla to Malaga
-Something (train or bus) to Malaga airport
-Ryanair flight FR656 to Glasgow: leaves at 9:25 pm, arrives at 11:35 pm
-Shuttle from the airport to a bus station: Midnight, arrives at 1:00 am
BIG STRESS NUMBER ONE: As you can see, I have twenty-five minutes to get on this shuttle. If I don't make it, the next shuttle is at 5:50 am. The plot thickens: it is unlikely that I would be able to pick up checked baggage in time to make this. Ryanair allows one small thing on board, weighing no more than 10kg (about 20 pounds). I will be traveling for a week.
-Taxi from bus station to my hostel
II. Tuesday, April 28th
-Bus or taxi from hostel to the Glasgow Queen Street train station
-Train to Oban: 8:21 am, to arrive at 11:27 am
BIG STRESS NUMBER TWO: I have to pick up my tickets with the card I used to purchased them. Did I tell you I was pickpocketed this week? I no longer have a bank card. The website provides a number to call if it is impossible to have that card. I called the number, on both my cell phone and skype. I am positive that I used the right dialing codes. My cell phone claimed the number didn't exist. Skype simply said, "You are not allowed to call this number." I sent them a frantic email, and they said they'd respond within five business days. I'm assuming the weekend doesn't count. It's Thursday night. Ahhhh!!!!
-Meet Valerie in Oban
BIG STRESS NUMBER THREE: Valerie and I have been emailing. Several days ago, she asked for the specific times and dates, and said that her computer freezes a lot, and to call her if I don't hear back from her soon. I haven't heard back from her. Tried calling. Guess what? This one didn't work either!! I sent her another email. No idea how to get in touch with her.
-Ferry to the Isle of Lismore
-Mere twenty-four hours on the island to recover from traveling, enjoy the amazing island,
and form life-long connections
III. Wednesday, April 29th
-Ferry to Oban
-Train from Oban to Glasgow: 12:11, to arrive at 3:30 (unfortunately the next train got me in
too late for my flight)
-See all of Glasgow
-Train or bus back to Glasgow Prestwick airport
-Flight to Dublin: FR777, 9:30 pm, to arrive at 10:20 pm
BIG STRESS NUMBER THREE: Identical to BS(ha, fitting)#1. The last bus that leaves the Dublin airport for downtown is at 10:40. Twenty minutes to book it.
-Reunite with friends in Dublin. Exhale for first time.
AHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!! Of course, I'll be all alone. At least it's all English-speaking. Suddenly my Valence trip seems like a walk in the park.
Any comforting words/inside connections at Ryanair would be highly appreciated.
I have plans to go to Ireland with some friends from my program. However, I decided to head north earlier to visit an old family friend in Scotland. I am at the mercy of Ryanair, because I had to change my flight to Dublin rather than cancel it and get a new one. Here's the plan:
I. Monday, April 27th
-Train from Sevilla to Malaga
-Something (train or bus) to Malaga airport
-Ryanair flight FR656 to Glasgow: leaves at 9:25 pm, arrives at 11:35 pm
-Shuttle from the airport to a bus station: Midnight, arrives at 1:00 am
BIG STRESS NUMBER ONE: As you can see, I have twenty-five minutes to get on this shuttle. If I don't make it, the next shuttle is at 5:50 am. The plot thickens: it is unlikely that I would be able to pick up checked baggage in time to make this. Ryanair allows one small thing on board, weighing no more than 10kg (about 20 pounds). I will be traveling for a week.
-Taxi from bus station to my hostel
II. Tuesday, April 28th
-Bus or taxi from hostel to the Glasgow Queen Street train station
-Train to Oban: 8:21 am, to arrive at 11:27 am
BIG STRESS NUMBER TWO: I have to pick up my tickets with the card I used to purchased them. Did I tell you I was pickpocketed this week? I no longer have a bank card. The website provides a number to call if it is impossible to have that card. I called the number, on both my cell phone and skype. I am positive that I used the right dialing codes. My cell phone claimed the number didn't exist. Skype simply said, "You are not allowed to call this number." I sent them a frantic email, and they said they'd respond within five business days. I'm assuming the weekend doesn't count. It's Thursday night. Ahhhh!!!!
-Meet Valerie in Oban
BIG STRESS NUMBER THREE: Valerie and I have been emailing. Several days ago, she asked for the specific times and dates, and said that her computer freezes a lot, and to call her if I don't hear back from her soon. I haven't heard back from her. Tried calling. Guess what? This one didn't work either!! I sent her another email. No idea how to get in touch with her.
-Ferry to the Isle of Lismore
-Mere twenty-four hours on the island to recover from traveling, enjoy the amazing island,
and form life-long connections
III. Wednesday, April 29th
-Ferry to Oban
-Train from Oban to Glasgow: 12:11, to arrive at 3:30 (unfortunately the next train got me in
too late for my flight)
-See all of Glasgow
-Train or bus back to Glasgow Prestwick airport
-Flight to Dublin: FR777, 9:30 pm, to arrive at 10:20 pm
BIG STRESS NUMBER THREE: Identical to BS(ha, fitting)#1. The last bus that leaves the Dublin airport for downtown is at 10:40. Twenty minutes to book it.
-Reunite with friends in Dublin. Exhale for first time.
AHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!! Of course, I'll be all alone. At least it's all English-speaking. Suddenly my Valence trip seems like a walk in the park.
Any comforting words/inside connections at Ryanair would be highly appreciated.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Proud moment.
I made a pun in Spanish!!
Yesterday, after lunch, Carmen was washing dishes. My glass and yogurt container remained on the table.
Carmen: Hay más? (Is there more?)
Carlos: Sí, espera. (Yes, wait.)
Me: No es pera, es yogur!! (It's not a pear, it's yogurt!)
Jajajaja. Never been more proud in my life.
Yesterday, after lunch, Carmen was washing dishes. My glass and yogurt container remained on the table.
Carmen: Hay más? (Is there more?)
Carlos: Sí, espera. (Yes, wait.)
Me: No es pera, es yogur!! (It's not a pear, it's yogurt!)
Jajajaja. Never been more proud in my life.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Big Crazy Exciting Incredible Journey Homeward Bound Travel Adventure Story
After a wonderful trip to Paris, Sasha and I sadly boarded the train that would take us back into Spain: to Valencia. We had had a hard time finding transportation back to Spain, since tourists flock in for the famous Semana Santa. Therefore, we were thrilled to find cheap (thirty euro) tickets from Paris to Valencia, a city that we both wanted to visit. We were also surprised to see that this trip was only two and half hours long compared to the nine-hour ride from Valencia to Sevilla. We decided that it must be the fastest train ever. Around 10:30 pm Tuesday night, we got off the train, ready to take our first breath of Spanish air in a week. We looked around, saw a “Sortie” sign (“exit” in French), listened to the conductors, and realized that we were completely still in France. This was the day that we learned about the great town of Valence, France. Suddenly it made sense why the trip was so short. There we were, two inexperienced travelers, late at night, in a foreign country. Our first response was to crack up. A long, adventure ensued. As you can see, we took a picture at every stop, as our hair got dirtier and our eyes got puffier.
After collecting ourselves to face the situation with fear and stress, as we should, we found the conductor to talk to. Note: we don’t speak French. We tried to explain our situation. He didn’t get it. Enter Helpful Guy #1. HG#1 was a fellow passenger who speaks Spanish and French. Finally communication occurred, and the two conductors on scene in addition to our helper shared our laugh. The main conductor brought us into the office. He was SO helpful. He spoke more English than we had initially thought, knew what to do in this situation, and kept a good sense of humor. My favorite part was in the height of the stress when he starting whistling something really cheerful, possibly an old Dixieland hit, whish was ironic for the seriousness of the situation. I called our hostel in Valencia to tell them we wouldn’t be coming that night. The lady who answered laughed the hardest of everyone yet to whom I have told the story. “¡No sabia que hay una Valencia en Francia!!!” Yo tampoco. With information from the conductor, Sasha and I considered some options:
Plan A: Look for a hostel in Valence, then continue south in the morning. I left a worrisome voicemail for my parents and sent a text to my brother to ask them to look online and find us a hostel. The downfall: Valence is tiny, and it would be difficult to find something that late.
Plan B: Get on a train to Montpelier, France, then Barcelona. The downfall: finding a hostel in Barcelona during Semana Santa would be impossible. Were it Madrid we could probably be taken in by friends’ sympathetic host families, but we had no connections in Barcelona.
Plan C: Take the 1:00 AM train back to Paris, and look for a cheap flight in the morning. Downfalls: we had spent hours looking for a flight before finding our miraculous Valence tickets, so there was no reason we’d find a flight then but not before. Also, as generous and hospitable as our hosts were, we did not want to show up at 4:00 in the morning. Even so, I called Ally, who has internet at her house, to look for a flight. During this international call, my saldo (pre-paid minutes) died. The only thing worse than being lost in a foreign country late at night is being lost in a foreign country late at night with no cell phone. In addition, my parents would soon come home to a voice mail (“we have a problem, call ASAP”) and not be able to get a hold of me. I used Vodaphone’s emergency saldo code (*111#) to get $2.50 (good thing, my worried mom called back).
Plan D: Midnight train to Toulouse, to Nordeau, to Valencia, to arrive at 3:00 the following afternoon. Perfect.
The conductor wrote out the stops for us, and luckily he clarified that we had to change at both stops. He wrote down our situation in French, gave it the official Valence station stamp, and came with us when the train arrived to talk to the conductor. Inside the train to Toulouse, the two conductors helped sort out our situation once again. They laughed, and kindly allowed us to complete our ride to Toulouse free of charge. There was abundant space on the train, and we each got a row of seats to ourselves. We attempted to sleep until the train arrived at 5:30 AM. Once there, our instructions were to find the 6:14 train to Nordeau and buy tickets on board, since the ticket offices don’t open until 7:00. The stop before ours, the kind, stereotypical conductor-hat and conductor-moustache adorned conductor found Sasha and me to tell us that the next stop was ours. Sensing something was up, Helpful Guy #2, a passenger sitting behind us, asked if we needed help with anything (in Spanish, which we established was a common language). He advised us to take the train to a place that starts with an S (which we kept forgetting the name of) at the border, and then continue to Valencia. He seemed to know what he was talking about, so we weren’t sure if we should aim for Saraband or whatever or Nordeau, as planned. We got off the train and scanned the departure screen for the train to Nordeau. There was nothing to be found. Sensing our confusion, a friendly, English-speaking police officer with a very funny voice came to the rescue. After several minutes of attempting to re-decipher our original conductor’s written route, he came to the conclusion that what looked like “Nordeau” was really “Narbonne,” and what looked like “6:14” was really “6:54.” This made a lot more sense. The police officer came with us to talk to the very impatient information guy, who confirmed the existence of this train. We asked about Swaziland or whatever but no one knew what we were talking about. We gave up and went with Plan A. This gave us an hour to explore the Toulouse train station. We waited until 6:00 for the pay-toilets to open and spent a worthy 50 centimos apiece. I bought my last croissant of France, and we stocked up on Peanut M&Ms from the vending machine. I was rifling through the puzzle books at the convenience store and was pleased to find the French version of the Games magazine paint-by-numbers puzzles I have always enjoyed. This made the remaining 239847238942 hours of our trip much more quick, fun, and intellectually stimulating.
6:54 AM
When the time came, we boarded the train and found the conductor. Although our story was no longer necessary to commute from Toulouse to Narbonne, we still told the conductor, hoping to get a sympathy discount or snacks or hugs or something. We still had to buy tickets, but we got prime seats (red and purple ones, nonetheless). I couldn’t help but fantasize that all European train conductors were alerted of our journey, and they were all in it together to help us. It worked in my head like the Twilight Bark in “101 Dalmatians.” All that mattered to the dogs (conductors) all over the continent was to get these puppies (Sasha and me) back to safety (Spain). I took pleasure in imagining our first conductor going home from work, his wife making him some tea, and him frantically waiting for news of our arrival. He could not be consoled until he knew that we had safely made it. Simultaneously, there would be a welcoming committee in Narbonne who would grab us and quickly escort us, without any bad guys seeing, onto the next train, where the kind old conductor would take care of us while on that leg of the journey.
Anyway, back on Earth, the conductor of this train (who whistled Gnarls Barkley’s “Crazy” with a cute vibrato as he printed our tickets) told us that in Narbonne, we’d have ten minutes to buy tickets and board the train to Valencia, and that we wouldn’t be able to buy tickets on board. We were very nervous about this, but he assured us that we’d be fine. The train had barely stopped when we bolted off, shoving travelers out of our way to get to the ticket booth. The line was more than ten minutes long. We went to the computer thing to buy them. It claimed that this train didn’t exist. With six minutes to spare, we sought a conductor. The one we found spoke no English at all, so I busted out my French. I was proud of how advanced I’ve become; instead of “Où est Espagne?” (“Where is Spain?”), I told him “Je voudrais Espagne” (I would like Spain). He brought us, along with an English-speaking Slovakian backpacker on his way to Barcelona, to the departure screen. He indicated that we should take the train to Port Bou, at the border, and then get a train to Valencia. This train was due to leave at 6:30 AM. It was currently 8:20. After some confusion, the Slovakian (who’s helpfulness was only slight, and therefore does not earn him the title of Helpful Guy #3) figured out that this train was two hours late. Since it was now about to leave, we risked the chance that we couldn’t buy tickets on board in favor of actually being on a train to Spain (that went mostly through the plain).
8:30 AM
As we had come to be accustomed, we looked for the conductor on the train. We walked twice through a million sleeper cars before we found him (with his shirt unbuttoned, not wearing his hat) and asked how to get to Valencia. He said we should get off at Port Bou then get the train to Barcelona. We asked one more time about Sacagawea or whatever, on the border, and he finally identified Cereber (it turns out it never started with an S). He said that either stop would work, but that Port Bou was better. Pleased that we were on our way to Spain, we told him we needed to buy tickets. He told us not to worry about it, covered his eyes, and stated that he never saw us. We took his cue and shuffled off to find seats and celebrate our second free train of the “day.”
We sat down, and a minute later a couple sat down behind us. This couple was memorable for two reasons: they were right in front of us in line at the Paris Catacombs the day before, and they both had long, fluorescent pink hair. We identified ourselves, and we chatted a bit. They’re British, and they’re touring Europe. They had had “travel problems,” as their morning train was delayed (HA! They don’t know the first thing about travel problems). They were on their way to Madrid, and also planned to change in Port Bou. Halfway through our commute, the train stopped at the Perpignan station. The conductors stormed in and sternly demanded that all Spain passengers get out. They finally explained that there was a bus directly to Barcelona, which I think was supposed to be helpful. We asked why we couldn’t stay until Port Bou and change trains as planned, and they confirmed that we still could. Wondering why anyone would choose a bus over a train, Sasha and I returned to our seats in the now almost empty car. We discussed what was going on, and a friendly elderly man sitting across from us entered the conversation. I’m proud to say that I honestly don’t remember if we were speaking English or Spanish. Either way, Helpful Guy #3 finally gave us answers. There is normally a train from Narbonne to Valencia, but it was cancelled. Cereber also has border control, but it has fewer trains out, hence the recommendation to stick with Port Bou. He explained that we would be taking the commuter rail to Barcelona, then the normal Renfe (Spanish train system) to Valencia. He said that they offered the bus because it goes directly to Barcelona, so it is theoretically faster. He, like many before him, loved our story.
11:00 AM
Excitement was in the air when the train stopped at the border control before entering the tunnel that would take us to Spain. My parents say that I’ve been through this exact tunnel before, eighteen years ago. Crazy! Two and a half policemen entered the train to see our passports: two adults and a gleeful, smiling fourteen-year-old wearing full police gear. I secretly hoped we would be arrested by the apprentice for stowing away (since we had no tickets), but in the end we settled for it being “Take Your Son to Work Day.” We went through the tunnel, and emerged in Spain! After being comforted by the sign reading “Salida” rather than “Sortie” and bidding farewell to HG#3, we took our places in line at the ticket window. We were SO happy to see a Spanish woman working. We proceeded to buy tickets, all in Spanish, and ask her every technical question we could think of just because we could. We told her the story as well, and she kindly welcomed us back to Spain. I celebrated our arrival by buying a chunk of Tortilla to augment my breakfast of Snickers and leftover Portuguese corn nuts.
The commuter rail to Barcelona went well, and we shared a laugh when we saw a station sign with the character “ç.” We remembered that the language of Barcelona is Catalan, not the Castilian Spanish that we speak, and that it includes the French character. Phew. Unfortunately, we didn’t have time to leave the station; our roundabout route could have been a serendipitous way to see the city. Across the station we spotted our pink-haired friends. We went to talk to them, and asked how the bus ride was. The man responded, “We’ve just been through hell.” He elaborated that “two-hundred” people were cramming to get onto this bus, and that it was hot and uncomfortable. He was frustrated to see that our train had gotten in at the exact same time, but admired our assertiveness in getting information and staying on the train. We joked about the other places in Europe that we would likely run into them, and at 2:30 Sasha and I got on our sixth train of the journey, headed to Valencia. It was great to hear Spanish again (Catalan didn’t sound too different, just like the Sean Connery version of Castilian Spanish), and we chatted with our neighbors on the train (including a lady with a cat!) and recounted our journey to anyone who would listen.
I did a lot of thinking on this train ride. It was incredible to me that we were on our way to Valencia. Sasha and I, the youngest of our families, somehow had made it from the foreign, scary, Valence to the back to a country where we know how to get around. I felt very glad to have three important things through our adventure:
1. Some traveling experience. I am extremely lucky to have had trips before this. In the past eight years, I have had four overseas trips (Italy with my family, Japan with school, Spain with school, and London with a friend). Even though three out of four were chaperoned and I had no hand in the planning, they still gave me travel experience. Even if I had not bought the tickets, I had been on trains in a foreign country. I can imagine that this would have been so much scarier if this were my first time overseas. So many people my age have not had the opportunities or finances for big trips, and I have taken all four of mine for granted.
2. Sasha. I cannot imagine going through this without her. Paris showed that we are great travel buddies, and we function so well together. I don’t know if I would have been able to laugh immediately after setting foot in Valence if she hadn’t been there. Our combined forces kept us moving south, and together we kept our spirits high. We shared candy, we took turns staying awake to pay attention to stops (as in I fell asleep every time I was supposed to keep watch, and she fell asleep every time she was supposed to, so it evened out), and we romantically reminded each other “We’ll always have Valence.” I am so glad to have had her there.
3. Luck. i. We speak two languages that, when spoken with a French accent, sound kind of like French. Also, lots of people spoke English. This could have happened in Siberia, or Greece, or Iceland, and then we’d REALLY be screwed. ii. We rode two of the trains for free. iii. We got comfortable seats on every train. iv. We weren’t in a wore-torn country. v. We’re cute young women. vi. We didn’t have lots of luggage. vii. It wasn’t the dead of winter. If any one of these things weren’t true, the trip would have been a whole lot worse.
Conclusion: Around 5:30 pm we made it to Valencia. We found our hostel, received laughs from the receptionist and other guests, and took the best showers of our lives. We ate Valencian paella, and after forty hours of being awake, finally went to bed. We arrived in Seville Thursday night, after a total of twenty-six hours spent on seven trains. This was an adventure that I will never forget, and a story I will always tell. Sasha and I are planning our next trip (to Italy in May), and making sure we don’t buy any tickets to Florence, MA or Venice, CA. With any travel troubles I have in the future, I will remember: at least I’m not in Valence. The end.
After collecting ourselves to face the situation with fear and stress, as we should, we found the conductor to talk to. Note: we don’t speak French. We tried to explain our situation. He didn’t get it. Enter Helpful Guy #1. HG#1 was a fellow passenger who speaks Spanish and French. Finally communication occurred, and the two conductors on scene in addition to our helper shared our laugh. The main conductor brought us into the office. He was SO helpful. He spoke more English than we had initially thought, knew what to do in this situation, and kept a good sense of humor. My favorite part was in the height of the stress when he starting whistling something really cheerful, possibly an old Dixieland hit, whish was ironic for the seriousness of the situation. I called our hostel in Valencia to tell them we wouldn’t be coming that night. The lady who answered laughed the hardest of everyone yet to whom I have told the story. “¡No sabia que hay una Valencia en Francia!!!” Yo tampoco. With information from the conductor, Sasha and I considered some options:
Plan A: Look for a hostel in Valence, then continue south in the morning. I left a worrisome voicemail for my parents and sent a text to my brother to ask them to look online and find us a hostel. The downfall: Valence is tiny, and it would be difficult to find something that late.
Plan B: Get on a train to Montpelier, France, then Barcelona. The downfall: finding a hostel in Barcelona during Semana Santa would be impossible. Were it Madrid we could probably be taken in by friends’ sympathetic host families, but we had no connections in Barcelona.
Plan C: Take the 1:00 AM train back to Paris, and look for a cheap flight in the morning. Downfalls: we had spent hours looking for a flight before finding our miraculous Valence tickets, so there was no reason we’d find a flight then but not before. Also, as generous and hospitable as our hosts were, we did not want to show up at 4:00 in the morning. Even so, I called Ally, who has internet at her house, to look for a flight. During this international call, my saldo (pre-paid minutes) died. The only thing worse than being lost in a foreign country late at night is being lost in a foreign country late at night with no cell phone. In addition, my parents would soon come home to a voice mail (“we have a problem, call ASAP”) and not be able to get a hold of me. I used Vodaphone’s emergency saldo code (*111#) to get $2.50 (good thing, my worried mom called back).
Plan D: Midnight train to Toulouse, to Nordeau, to Valencia, to arrive at 3:00 the following afternoon. Perfect.
The conductor wrote out the stops for us, and luckily he clarified that we had to change at both stops. He wrote down our situation in French, gave it the official Valence station stamp, and came with us when the train arrived to talk to the conductor. Inside the train to Toulouse, the two conductors helped sort out our situation once again. They laughed, and kindly allowed us to complete our ride to Toulouse free of charge. There was abundant space on the train, and we each got a row of seats to ourselves. We attempted to sleep until the train arrived at 5:30 AM. Once there, our instructions were to find the 6:14 train to Nordeau and buy tickets on board, since the ticket offices don’t open until 7:00. The stop before ours, the kind, stereotypical conductor-hat and conductor-moustache adorned conductor found Sasha and me to tell us that the next stop was ours. Sensing something was up, Helpful Guy #2, a passenger sitting behind us, asked if we needed help with anything (in Spanish, which we established was a common language). He advised us to take the train to a place that starts with an S (which we kept forgetting the name of) at the border, and then continue to Valencia. He seemed to know what he was talking about, so we weren’t sure if we should aim for Saraband or whatever or Nordeau, as planned. We got off the train and scanned the departure screen for the train to Nordeau. There was nothing to be found. Sensing our confusion, a friendly, English-speaking police officer with a very funny voice came to the rescue. After several minutes of attempting to re-decipher our original conductor’s written route, he came to the conclusion that what looked like “Nordeau” was really “Narbonne,” and what looked like “6:14” was really “6:54.” This made a lot more sense. The police officer came with us to talk to the very impatient information guy, who confirmed the existence of this train. We asked about Swaziland or whatever but no one knew what we were talking about. We gave up and went with Plan A. This gave us an hour to explore the Toulouse train station. We waited until 6:00 for the pay-toilets to open and spent a worthy 50 centimos apiece. I bought my last croissant of France, and we stocked up on Peanut M&Ms from the vending machine. I was rifling through the puzzle books at the convenience store and was pleased to find the French version of the Games magazine paint-by-numbers puzzles I have always enjoyed. This made the remaining 239847238942 hours of our trip much more quick, fun, and intellectually stimulating.
6:54 AM
When the time came, we boarded the train and found the conductor. Although our story was no longer necessary to commute from Toulouse to Narbonne, we still told the conductor, hoping to get a sympathy discount or snacks or hugs or something. We still had to buy tickets, but we got prime seats (red and purple ones, nonetheless). I couldn’t help but fantasize that all European train conductors were alerted of our journey, and they were all in it together to help us. It worked in my head like the Twilight Bark in “101 Dalmatians.” All that mattered to the dogs (conductors) all over the continent was to get these puppies (Sasha and me) back to safety (Spain). I took pleasure in imagining our first conductor going home from work, his wife making him some tea, and him frantically waiting for news of our arrival. He could not be consoled until he knew that we had safely made it. Simultaneously, there would be a welcoming committee in Narbonne who would grab us and quickly escort us, without any bad guys seeing, onto the next train, where the kind old conductor would take care of us while on that leg of the journey.
Anyway, back on Earth, the conductor of this train (who whistled Gnarls Barkley’s “Crazy” with a cute vibrato as he printed our tickets) told us that in Narbonne, we’d have ten minutes to buy tickets and board the train to Valencia, and that we wouldn’t be able to buy tickets on board. We were very nervous about this, but he assured us that we’d be fine. The train had barely stopped when we bolted off, shoving travelers out of our way to get to the ticket booth. The line was more than ten minutes long. We went to the computer thing to buy them. It claimed that this train didn’t exist. With six minutes to spare, we sought a conductor. The one we found spoke no English at all, so I busted out my French. I was proud of how advanced I’ve become; instead of “Où est Espagne?” (“Where is Spain?”), I told him “Je voudrais Espagne” (I would like Spain). He brought us, along with an English-speaking Slovakian backpacker on his way to Barcelona, to the departure screen. He indicated that we should take the train to Port Bou, at the border, and then get a train to Valencia. This train was due to leave at 6:30 AM. It was currently 8:20. After some confusion, the Slovakian (who’s helpfulness was only slight, and therefore does not earn him the title of Helpful Guy #3) figured out that this train was two hours late. Since it was now about to leave, we risked the chance that we couldn’t buy tickets on board in favor of actually being on a train to Spain (that went mostly through the plain).
8:30 AM
As we had come to be accustomed, we looked for the conductor on the train. We walked twice through a million sleeper cars before we found him (with his shirt unbuttoned, not wearing his hat) and asked how to get to Valencia. He said we should get off at Port Bou then get the train to Barcelona. We asked one more time about Sacagawea or whatever, on the border, and he finally identified Cereber (it turns out it never started with an S). He said that either stop would work, but that Port Bou was better. Pleased that we were on our way to Spain, we told him we needed to buy tickets. He told us not to worry about it, covered his eyes, and stated that he never saw us. We took his cue and shuffled off to find seats and celebrate our second free train of the “day.”
We sat down, and a minute later a couple sat down behind us. This couple was memorable for two reasons: they were right in front of us in line at the Paris Catacombs the day before, and they both had long, fluorescent pink hair. We identified ourselves, and we chatted a bit. They’re British, and they’re touring Europe. They had had “travel problems,” as their morning train was delayed (HA! They don’t know the first thing about travel problems). They were on their way to Madrid, and also planned to change in Port Bou. Halfway through our commute, the train stopped at the Perpignan station. The conductors stormed in and sternly demanded that all Spain passengers get out. They finally explained that there was a bus directly to Barcelona, which I think was supposed to be helpful. We asked why we couldn’t stay until Port Bou and change trains as planned, and they confirmed that we still could. Wondering why anyone would choose a bus over a train, Sasha and I returned to our seats in the now almost empty car. We discussed what was going on, and a friendly elderly man sitting across from us entered the conversation. I’m proud to say that I honestly don’t remember if we were speaking English or Spanish. Either way, Helpful Guy #3 finally gave us answers. There is normally a train from Narbonne to Valencia, but it was cancelled. Cereber also has border control, but it has fewer trains out, hence the recommendation to stick with Port Bou. He explained that we would be taking the commuter rail to Barcelona, then the normal Renfe (Spanish train system) to Valencia. He said that they offered the bus because it goes directly to Barcelona, so it is theoretically faster. He, like many before him, loved our story.
11:00 AM
Excitement was in the air when the train stopped at the border control before entering the tunnel that would take us to Spain. My parents say that I’ve been through this exact tunnel before, eighteen years ago. Crazy! Two and a half policemen entered the train to see our passports: two adults and a gleeful, smiling fourteen-year-old wearing full police gear. I secretly hoped we would be arrested by the apprentice for stowing away (since we had no tickets), but in the end we settled for it being “Take Your Son to Work Day.” We went through the tunnel, and emerged in Spain! After being comforted by the sign reading “Salida” rather than “Sortie” and bidding farewell to HG#3, we took our places in line at the ticket window. We were SO happy to see a Spanish woman working. We proceeded to buy tickets, all in Spanish, and ask her every technical question we could think of just because we could. We told her the story as well, and she kindly welcomed us back to Spain. I celebrated our arrival by buying a chunk of Tortilla to augment my breakfast of Snickers and leftover Portuguese corn nuts.
The commuter rail to Barcelona went well, and we shared a laugh when we saw a station sign with the character “ç.” We remembered that the language of Barcelona is Catalan, not the Castilian Spanish that we speak, and that it includes the French character. Phew. Unfortunately, we didn’t have time to leave the station; our roundabout route could have been a serendipitous way to see the city. Across the station we spotted our pink-haired friends. We went to talk to them, and asked how the bus ride was. The man responded, “We’ve just been through hell.” He elaborated that “two-hundred” people were cramming to get onto this bus, and that it was hot and uncomfortable. He was frustrated to see that our train had gotten in at the exact same time, but admired our assertiveness in getting information and staying on the train. We joked about the other places in Europe that we would likely run into them, and at 2:30 Sasha and I got on our sixth train of the journey, headed to Valencia. It was great to hear Spanish again (Catalan didn’t sound too different, just like the Sean Connery version of Castilian Spanish), and we chatted with our neighbors on the train (including a lady with a cat!) and recounted our journey to anyone who would listen.
I did a lot of thinking on this train ride. It was incredible to me that we were on our way to Valencia. Sasha and I, the youngest of our families, somehow had made it from the foreign, scary, Valence to the back to a country where we know how to get around. I felt very glad to have three important things through our adventure:
1. Some traveling experience. I am extremely lucky to have had trips before this. In the past eight years, I have had four overseas trips (Italy with my family, Japan with school, Spain with school, and London with a friend). Even though three out of four were chaperoned and I had no hand in the planning, they still gave me travel experience. Even if I had not bought the tickets, I had been on trains in a foreign country. I can imagine that this would have been so much scarier if this were my first time overseas. So many people my age have not had the opportunities or finances for big trips, and I have taken all four of mine for granted.
2. Sasha. I cannot imagine going through this without her. Paris showed that we are great travel buddies, and we function so well together. I don’t know if I would have been able to laugh immediately after setting foot in Valence if she hadn’t been there. Our combined forces kept us moving south, and together we kept our spirits high. We shared candy, we took turns staying awake to pay attention to stops (as in I fell asleep every time I was supposed to keep watch, and she fell asleep every time she was supposed to, so it evened out), and we romantically reminded each other “We’ll always have Valence.” I am so glad to have had her there.
3. Luck. i. We speak two languages that, when spoken with a French accent, sound kind of like French. Also, lots of people spoke English. This could have happened in Siberia, or Greece, or Iceland, and then we’d REALLY be screwed. ii. We rode two of the trains for free. iii. We got comfortable seats on every train. iv. We weren’t in a wore-torn country. v. We’re cute young women. vi. We didn’t have lots of luggage. vii. It wasn’t the dead of winter. If any one of these things weren’t true, the trip would have been a whole lot worse.
Conclusion: Around 5:30 pm we made it to Valencia. We found our hostel, received laughs from the receptionist and other guests, and took the best showers of our lives. We ate Valencian paella, and after forty hours of being awake, finally went to bed. We arrived in Seville Thursday night, after a total of twenty-six hours spent on seven trains. This was an adventure that I will never forget, and a story I will always tell. Sasha and I are planning our next trip (to Italy in May), and making sure we don’t buy any tickets to Florence, MA or Venice, CA. With any travel troubles I have in the future, I will remember: at least I’m not in Valence. The end.
Gibraltar Monkey Video
Gibraltar monkey video:
Youtube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EaTloeRzqyU
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/home.php#/video/video.php?v=1066648906432&ref=mf
Youtube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EaTloeRzqyU
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/home.php#/video/video.php?v=1066648906432&ref=mf
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Gibraltar--4/11/09
After a day of recovery in Spain, Kai and I spontaneously went to Gibraltar for a day. This was the strangest day trip of my life. Gibraltar is a four-square-mile British-owned territory on the southern tip of Spain. It was strange because we got on the bus in Sevilla, and seemed to get off in Great Britain itself. Everything was perfectly British (we had to change money), and it was a nice reminder of my trip to London and a preview of Kai’s impending one. We had no idea what language to speak all day, because the native language is English, but most employees are Spanish. The main attraction is, of course, the rock. We took a cable car up and spent the afternoon roaming around. The rock contains a Moorish castle, caves, and monkeys. The monkeys are the main tourist attraction, and also the most nationally important: when there are no more apes, the rock will no longer be British territory. There are just so adorable. They were all in family units, which generally had a mom, a dad, a baby monkey, and a kid monkey. They are free roaming, and there are cutely illustrated signs warning visitors not to feed the monkeys, show the possession of plastic bags, which the monkeys associate with food, or mock the monkeys (I violated all three—I gave one my orange, I rustled my sunscreen bag, and I pretended to pick nits out of Kai’s hair, since that’s all they do). Right off the cable car we saw the first family. I crouched down to extend my hand to the baby, and he jumped straight on my head. I guess the nit-picking is a really big deal, because the monkey was combing his little hands through my hair and gnawing on chunks. He found two big nits (bobby pins) and tried to get them out. This felt soooo good. It was the pleasure of a scalp massage and wearing a really fuzzy hat all in one. I was a little nervous about my ears, but I still enjoyed it. Putting a monkey on your head is apparently a great way to get attention, since a big crowd formed and the cameras were going nonstop. Kai took a video, which I will soon post. There was one moment of fear that he was going for my backpack zipper, inside of which he would have found a sandwich, three oranges, some ham-flavored potato chips (oh, Spain), and cookies. Luckily my hair was more fun. After I tried to shift so he would jump onto Kai, he went back to his mommy. His mom said something to him after! She put her face real close and definitely talked, it was not a sound I ever associated with Monkeys, but I wonder what she said. As a result of this interaction, I had a sick hairdo. He had pulled my bobby pins halfway out, so I had these “wings,” as Kai called them sticking up. I decided to keep it like that all day.
The second monkey encounter was several hours later, after hiking all around the rock. Kai and I arrived at the café at the summit, hot and tired. We sought refuge in the form of pre-packaged ice cream bars. We purchased them and stepped outside. A big, scary, full-grown monkey came out of nowhere. He saw my ice cream, and knew it was food. I held it high, out of his reach, forgetting that he was a monkey, and therefore that wouldn’t stop him. Next thing I know, he was on my back. I was terrified, and therefore could not enjoy giving a piggyback to a monkey, something I’ve always wanted to do. My instinct was to throw the ice cream to Kai. It worked, and the monkey jumped off and went for Kai. He threw it back, and we bolted to safety inside. It wasn’t until the bus ride home that I really became aware of the fact that I had played “Monkey in the Middle” with a real monkey.
In addition to England and monkeys, the rock was enjoyable as a natural wonder. We explored all the paths looking for the official Ape Den, and saw all sorts of flowers and trees. From every side we could see the sparkling, blue ocean. We saw the Spanish mountains, the strait of Gibraltar, and Africa. Our cable car driver pointed it out: it was a greenish peak through the mist on the horizon. I was disappointed that time and monkey didn’t permit my stepping on African soil (Morocco is an easy weekend trip from Spain), but I was glad to have even seen it. We decided to take the late bus back to have more time. Kai subtly rolled his apple to the big kid of a monkey family. It was so cute watching this little monkey sitting, eating the apple. He was a little ways away from his family, and they did not notice the treat he had found. The monkey stood up, apple in hand. I was expecting him to bring it to his family to share, but instead he took off up the cliff to find a spot to consume the apple in privacy. Unfortunately, about halfway up he dropped it. A mean, full-grown monkey scooped up the apple before the kid could climb back down. The sad little monkey returned to his family unit to get nitpicked while the baby breast-fed.
All in all, this day was wonderful and unique. Kai and I got real English fish and chips before boarding our bus back, and reviewed the fact that we saw Africa and played with monkeys, two firsts, on the same day. We agreed that we will probably never return to this site, so it was certainly a day to remember.
The second monkey encounter was several hours later, after hiking all around the rock. Kai and I arrived at the café at the summit, hot and tired. We sought refuge in the form of pre-packaged ice cream bars. We purchased them and stepped outside. A big, scary, full-grown monkey came out of nowhere. He saw my ice cream, and knew it was food. I held it high, out of his reach, forgetting that he was a monkey, and therefore that wouldn’t stop him. Next thing I know, he was on my back. I was terrified, and therefore could not enjoy giving a piggyback to a monkey, something I’ve always wanted to do. My instinct was to throw the ice cream to Kai. It worked, and the monkey jumped off and went for Kai. He threw it back, and we bolted to safety inside. It wasn’t until the bus ride home that I really became aware of the fact that I had played “Monkey in the Middle” with a real monkey.
In addition to England and monkeys, the rock was enjoyable as a natural wonder. We explored all the paths looking for the official Ape Den, and saw all sorts of flowers and trees. From every side we could see the sparkling, blue ocean. We saw the Spanish mountains, the strait of Gibraltar, and Africa. Our cable car driver pointed it out: it was a greenish peak through the mist on the horizon. I was disappointed that time and monkey didn’t permit my stepping on African soil (Morocco is an easy weekend trip from Spain), but I was glad to have even seen it. We decided to take the late bus back to have more time. Kai subtly rolled his apple to the big kid of a monkey family. It was so cute watching this little monkey sitting, eating the apple. He was a little ways away from his family, and they did not notice the treat he had found. The monkey stood up, apple in hand. I was expecting him to bring it to his family to share, but instead he took off up the cliff to find a spot to consume the apple in privacy. Unfortunately, about halfway up he dropped it. A mean, full-grown monkey scooped up the apple before the kid could climb back down. The sad little monkey returned to his family unit to get nitpicked while the baby breast-fed.
All in all, this day was wonderful and unique. Kai and I got real English fish and chips before boarding our bus back, and reviewed the fact that we saw Africa and played with monkeys, two firsts, on the same day. We agreed that we will probably never return to this site, so it was certainly a day to remember.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Three More Funny Things:
1. This is Ally’s story; I did not witness this one. Ally was at a bar talking to this Spanish guy. He went outside to smoke, came back in, and once again found Ally. However, this time he claimed he no longer spoke Spanish and had her choose between English or Martian. She obviously chose Martian, and without breaking a straight face, this guy told her something in a series of fast, high-pitched beeps. Ally was laughing quite a bit, but managed to respond. They held a decent conversation in Martian, and Ally’s friend did not smile or laugh once.
2. This one is my friend Laura’s story. She was walking with a group that included the seven-year-old girl who lives at her house. The girl was pushing a doll in a toy stroller. An old man walked by pushing his old wife in a wheelchair. When their paths crossed, the old man said to the little girl (in Spanish, of course), “My doll is bigger than your doll!”
3. A couple of weekends ago, Emma and I went into OpenCor, my favorite convenience store, in search of ice cream. When we were in line to check out, we noticed the DVD of “Los Increibles” for sale. I recounted to Emma the time with a girl from ITS (the campus computer repairers) came to my room freshman year to reinstall Windows. We had to wait a half-hour for the thing to load, and we weren’t going to make smalltalk for a half-hour. To pass the time, we watched “The Incredibles” that my roommate had left in the DVD player. The end. This story lasted until the end of our transaction. We became aware that the cashier at OpenCor was reeeeeally feeling this story. Even though he could not have known what “ITS” is, he was hanging on every word and cracking up. It was, in fact, the funniest story he had ever heard. He was looking right at me, waiting for more. I had to quickly finish up the story before we left.
What a fun life we live in Sevilla!
2. This one is my friend Laura’s story. She was walking with a group that included the seven-year-old girl who lives at her house. The girl was pushing a doll in a toy stroller. An old man walked by pushing his old wife in a wheelchair. When their paths crossed, the old man said to the little girl (in Spanish, of course), “My doll is bigger than your doll!”
3. A couple of weekends ago, Emma and I went into OpenCor, my favorite convenience store, in search of ice cream. When we were in line to check out, we noticed the DVD of “Los Increibles” for sale. I recounted to Emma the time with a girl from ITS (the campus computer repairers) came to my room freshman year to reinstall Windows. We had to wait a half-hour for the thing to load, and we weren’t going to make smalltalk for a half-hour. To pass the time, we watched “The Incredibles” that my roommate had left in the DVD player. The end. This story lasted until the end of our transaction. We became aware that the cashier at OpenCor was reeeeeally feeling this story. Even though he could not have known what “ITS” is, he was hanging on every word and cracking up. It was, in fact, the funniest story he had ever heard. He was looking right at me, waiting for more. I had to quickly finish up the story before we left.
What a fun life we live in Sevilla!
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Four Funny Things
Two weeks ago, a group of choir members, myself included, went out for tapas after choir, as we often do. Two funny things happened within a minutes of each other.
Two nights ago, I was playing with Esperanza, my eight-year-old host sister, and two more funny things happened within minutes of each other.
None of these on its own merited a post, but I decided that the four together are valuable enough to publish.
1.a. My friend Amy and I were talking to Pablo, a very nice, jolly, smiling tenor with whom neither of us had talked before. The topic of discussion was, unsurprisingly for the circumstances, Spanish cuisine. Specifically, everything is fried in Spain. Amy, a Minnesota native, drew the comparison that everything is fried at the Minnesota State Fair. Pablo asked what the Minnesota State Fair is. Amy began explaining it (in Spanish, of course): “Well, everyone brings their pigs and their cows...” Pablo interjected, “To fry?” Laughter ensued.
1.b. The subject still on Minnesota, Pablo mentioned mid-west accents. This shifted to general American English pronunciation, and the words that Americans destroy (e.g. “written”). This was Pablo’s cue to burst into song (in English, this time): “Raindrops on roses and whiskers on KI’ENS. We all joined in. Pablo took center stage when we arrived at the chorus: “When the shark bites, when the bee stings...” More laughter ensued. I hope shark bites aren’t one of those everyday annoyances in Spain! “Aw, not again!!” I walked home that night laughing, remembering both of Pablo’s fine lines.
2.a. I arrived home after a day of classes to a chaotic scene at home. The puppy was running around and squealing, as was Esperanza. Esperanza decided that we would play doctor. She asked me what hurts. Without thinking, I told her the truth: my left knee. She proceeded to pick up my water bottle and slam it down on my poor knee, I think to “test my reflexes.” This was amusing to me because it was sooooo painful, yet so avoidable.
2.b. After drawing a scar onto my knee, Esperanza transformed into my teacher. She was assigning me homework with help from my current book, “Bridget Jones Sobrevive” (book two). Flipping through, Esperanza selected Spanish words for me to translate into English. I was really hung up on the third word, which sounded like “shah-RON” or something. Giving up, I asked Esperanza to show me the written word. It was “Sharon,” the name of one of Bridget’s friends. Jajaja!
Two nights ago, I was playing with Esperanza, my eight-year-old host sister, and two more funny things happened within minutes of each other.
None of these on its own merited a post, but I decided that the four together are valuable enough to publish.
1.a. My friend Amy and I were talking to Pablo, a very nice, jolly, smiling tenor with whom neither of us had talked before. The topic of discussion was, unsurprisingly for the circumstances, Spanish cuisine. Specifically, everything is fried in Spain. Amy, a Minnesota native, drew the comparison that everything is fried at the Minnesota State Fair. Pablo asked what the Minnesota State Fair is. Amy began explaining it (in Spanish, of course): “Well, everyone brings their pigs and their cows...” Pablo interjected, “To fry?” Laughter ensued.
1.b. The subject still on Minnesota, Pablo mentioned mid-west accents. This shifted to general American English pronunciation, and the words that Americans destroy (e.g. “written”). This was Pablo’s cue to burst into song (in English, this time): “Raindrops on roses and whiskers on KI’ENS. We all joined in. Pablo took center stage when we arrived at the chorus: “When the shark bites, when the bee stings...” More laughter ensued. I hope shark bites aren’t one of those everyday annoyances in Spain! “Aw, not again!!” I walked home that night laughing, remembering both of Pablo’s fine lines.
2.a. I arrived home after a day of classes to a chaotic scene at home. The puppy was running around and squealing, as was Esperanza. Esperanza decided that we would play doctor. She asked me what hurts. Without thinking, I told her the truth: my left knee. She proceeded to pick up my water bottle and slam it down on my poor knee, I think to “test my reflexes.” This was amusing to me because it was sooooo painful, yet so avoidable.
2.b. After drawing a scar onto my knee, Esperanza transformed into my teacher. She was assigning me homework with help from my current book, “Bridget Jones Sobrevive” (book two). Flipping through, Esperanza selected Spanish words for me to translate into English. I was really hung up on the third word, which sounded like “shah-RON” or something. Giving up, I asked Esperanza to show me the written word. It was “Sharon,” the name of one of Bridget’s friends. Jajaja!
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
End of monthlong post
The following weekend I stayed in Sevilla. On Friday, it dawned on me how little time I have left here, so Kai and I committed to doing touristy stuff, and visited the Torre de Oro that we walk by every day. Later that afternoon, I went to get a haircut. Carmen had recommended a haircut academy right near our house that’s super cheap, because the workers are students. She assured me that they do a good job. This was disastrous. I’m sure they do a good job on traditional Spanish haircuts, but my hair was completely foreign. I know that I explained things well, but a haircut is still not something I recommend doing in one’s second language. The student kept calling over her teachers for help. The teachers were fine, but the second they left her she kept screwing up. She ended up chopping off one side of hair, and completely forgetting the other side. I pointed this out, and she did a little, but it is still completely asymmetrical. This was a completely traumatic experience, and luckily, Kai was able to comfort me after.
On Saturday morning Sasha and I went to Aracena with the program. We stopped along the way to tour a mine alongside the “Rio de Tinto” (river of wine). There was, in fact, a red lake. We proceeded to Aracena, a tiny town that I had definitely seen before (I think we hiked through it the first Senderismo). It was really nice to have time with Sasha, and we spent the morning walking through the town in search of ice cream. Later on, our group visited the “Gruta de las Maravillas,” which translates to “Cave of Wonders.” This was incredible. It’s this massive cave underground that has been augmented with stairs, railings, and lights to make it walkable. It was filled with glowing green lakes and stalactites galore. I highly recommend looking up pictures online, as photography was not allowed. Saturday night Sasha and I finally saw, and loved, “Slumdog Millionaire.” It was nice to just watch a movie, a favorite activity of mine that has been removed from my routine since coming here. We saw it in the original language movie theater, which, as it turned out, meant that it was not dubbed. However, there were still subtitles in Spanish and not in English. This meant that for most of it, when English was not spoken, we were viewing the movie in Spanish. This was totally fine for both of us, but it was strange when the movie switched to English. Sasha and I confirmed after that we had both continued reading the Spanish and ignored the English, because we were used to it. I was proud that we were able to understand all of it in Spanish.
I woke up sick Sunday morning. I hadn’t been that sick in awhile, and I was surprised that I contracted something due to my massive amount of sleep the week before and my daily orange consumption. This was especially bad timing because I had midterms the week that followed. I decided to go to the doctor, something that Kai had done the week before. There is one office that’s very helpful to American students, and I dragged myself out of bed and over there. The doctor complimented my Spanish as I described my symptoms and even managed to joke with him. I remembered the unit in seventh grade Spanish where we learned sick terms and practiced doctor’s appointments in class. I’m pretty sure this is the first time I’ve used this vocabulary since then. Ms. Morehouse should immediately get some professional development points for effective teaching, since the necessary words came to mind after an eight-year hiatus. He prescribed me some stuff, and my host family luckily had their tub of Vick’s VapoRub, pronounced in Andalusia “BeebahpoRRROO.” Somehow, I survived through exam week. I had my Flamenco exam Wednesday night, my Tres Culturas and grammar exams back to back on Thursday, and my art history exam Monday morning. I realized that these were my first content exams in Spanish. Everything’s graded on a ten-point scale, and so far I’ve only heard back from Flamenco (8’9, as it was written, with a “Bien” after my essays!).
Totally unrelated: I looked up the Spanish word “polo” in my bilingual dictionary the other day. Here is what I found:
polo m 1 pole. 2 polo. 3 ice lolly.
I liked that.
I wrote the bulk of this while falling asleep in bed last night, intending to go back and edit and delete the boring details before posting it. However, it’s raining and I’m sleepy and sick of writing, so I’m just going to post it as is, oh well.
Mom--you were wondering how to comment; you can do it right under every post!!
On Saturday morning Sasha and I went to Aracena with the program. We stopped along the way to tour a mine alongside the “Rio de Tinto” (river of wine). There was, in fact, a red lake. We proceeded to Aracena, a tiny town that I had definitely seen before (I think we hiked through it the first Senderismo). It was really nice to have time with Sasha, and we spent the morning walking through the town in search of ice cream. Later on, our group visited the “Gruta de las Maravillas,” which translates to “Cave of Wonders.” This was incredible. It’s this massive cave underground that has been augmented with stairs, railings, and lights to make it walkable. It was filled with glowing green lakes and stalactites galore. I highly recommend looking up pictures online, as photography was not allowed. Saturday night Sasha and I finally saw, and loved, “Slumdog Millionaire.” It was nice to just watch a movie, a favorite activity of mine that has been removed from my routine since coming here. We saw it in the original language movie theater, which, as it turned out, meant that it was not dubbed. However, there were still subtitles in Spanish and not in English. This meant that for most of it, when English was not spoken, we were viewing the movie in Spanish. This was totally fine for both of us, but it was strange when the movie switched to English. Sasha and I confirmed after that we had both continued reading the Spanish and ignored the English, because we were used to it. I was proud that we were able to understand all of it in Spanish.
I woke up sick Sunday morning. I hadn’t been that sick in awhile, and I was surprised that I contracted something due to my massive amount of sleep the week before and my daily orange consumption. This was especially bad timing because I had midterms the week that followed. I decided to go to the doctor, something that Kai had done the week before. There is one office that’s very helpful to American students, and I dragged myself out of bed and over there. The doctor complimented my Spanish as I described my symptoms and even managed to joke with him. I remembered the unit in seventh grade Spanish where we learned sick terms and practiced doctor’s appointments in class. I’m pretty sure this is the first time I’ve used this vocabulary since then. Ms. Morehouse should immediately get some professional development points for effective teaching, since the necessary words came to mind after an eight-year hiatus. He prescribed me some stuff, and my host family luckily had their tub of Vick’s VapoRub, pronounced in Andalusia “BeebahpoRRROO.” Somehow, I survived through exam week. I had my Flamenco exam Wednesday night, my Tres Culturas and grammar exams back to back on Thursday, and my art history exam Monday morning. I realized that these were my first content exams in Spanish. Everything’s graded on a ten-point scale, and so far I’ve only heard back from Flamenco (8’9, as it was written, with a “Bien” after my essays!).
Totally unrelated: I looked up the Spanish word “polo” in my bilingual dictionary the other day. Here is what I found:
polo m 1 pole. 2 polo. 3 ice lolly.
I liked that.
I wrote the bulk of this while falling asleep in bed last night, intending to go back and edit and delete the boring details before posting it. However, it’s raining and I’m sleepy and sick of writing, so I’m just going to post it as is, oh well.
Mom--you were wondering how to comment; you can do it right under every post!!
Paella en el Campo
The following weekend was quite different. On Saturday I attended a “Paella en el campo” (el campo=the countryside). I happen to be a big fan of both paella and the countryside, so I eagerly accepted the invitation. Ana, a woman in choir, invited us. She is a kind, warm, Sevillian woman with three sons (ages 28ish, 23ish, and 17), two of whom are in choir as well. It was her birthday, so she invited some people from choir to her pueblo. This town, Carrión de los Cespedes (cesped=lawn, grass), is where her parents are from, where she was born, where she spent summers as a kid, and where she goes for weekends and summers now. The town is about thirty miles outside of Sevilla, and the four Germans and I met up to be driven by Ana and her husband to the cabin. I was pleased to see that I was the only American in attendance. I have been getting to know the Germans in choir, so I was glad to have an opportunity to really bond with them. The Germans are Michel, the one guy, Rebecca, Manuela, and Hannah. Hannah is the one I’m closest to, and she was key in my invitation. She is super nice, and cute and stylish (short blonde hair and a red jacket!) and she loves to laugh and does so easily. Other guests included Paco, an elderly bass in choir, Elena and Franci[sco], also in choir, and their four-year-old son Massimo, a couple who met in choir as students (the woman is Italian and was studying abroad, her husband is Spanish) but no longer attend it, and their three-month-old baby boy, among others. We arrived at Ana’s cabin, which is hidden by a gate which opens onto a lemon-tree lined dirt road to the house. The house is adorable, think Pochet for those of you who can, with a little fireplace and little bedrooms and the wonderful smell of mothballs and must. There is a front yard complete with a swimming pool, full of many months worth of green rainwater. Hannah and I played with Massimo as the others began preparing Paella. Massimo is a wonderful, adorable, outgoing little boy who happens to look strikingly like Patrik, a little boy I babysat all through high school. It always baffles me how well children speak Spanish. I’ve been studying Spanish for eight years, Massimo is only four, yet he can use imperfect subjunctive vosotros without having to stop and think. Per his mother’s cue, he showed off the English phrases he knows, with a thick Andalusian accent: Chhhhello! Wherrre arrrre yous? Vye-vye!!! We read books and kicked a soccer ball around the driveway, and it felt so good to be around children again. We all helped with the paella prep (if it weren’t for me the paella would be slightly under-tomatoed) while Massimo’s dad Franci and his cousin set up the “grill.” Ana has a gigantic paella pan, which she keeps in the garden shed, that required hosing off. This pan was placed on a paella pan holder, which was plugged into a tank of some kind of gas. Massimo’s dad manned the spatula as I watched exactly how to prepare my favorite food in the world. This day was absolutely perfect. We ate all the paella we possibly could, sat with our feet in the pool (after removing the semi-decomposed, flattened hedgehog), Ana brought our several straw hats for the fair-skinned Germans and me (I left with a great tan), we simply relaxed all afternoon. The beauty of it was the English was not an option. For the first time since I’ve been here, I spent an entire day speaking in Spanish (with the exception of trying out everyone’s favorite German song, “Lachen [uber das feld],” which none of the Germans knew). The entire day was just so Spanish. Later in the afternoon, Ana made a pot of coffee and brought out some cookies. Franci fetched his guitar and embarked on playing and singing some Spanish songs. Ana, Paco, and Franci’s cousin sang along, and several of the Spaniard accompanied him with the appropriate clapping rhythms. I tried out a few that I’ve learned in Flamenco class, none of which were correct. This was the perfect Spanish day and the perfect summer day rolled into one. After a couple more hours, the youngins decided to go for a walk. Ana led the Germans and I on what ended up to be a long walk through the town. We were walking back around 9:00 at night, and it was just so peaceful. The moon was out, we could see the stars, hear the crickets (or maybe I added that part), and smell the sweet Andalucian air. The sky was a beautiful deep blue, and I was so content. Hannah and I agreed that this day was the highlight of our time here so far. As Ana packed up the leftover paella to bring home to her hungry sons, we picked lemons off the trees to our heart’s content, as Ana instructed, to bring home. I still have a bag full of fragrant, organic lemons, with which I have no idea what I’m going to do, but they’ve made their way into tea and Carmen’s baked goods. This day was one to remember.
Fotos: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2008994&id=1232310007&l=2291121e46
Fotos: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2008994&id=1232310007&l=2291121e46
Malaga
The weekend after my last post I went to Malaga, a beach town a couple hours outside of Sevilla. This was my first non-school-sponsored weekend trip, and my first real bunk bed hostel. Malaga is a small city with fabulous views. There are hills on one side on which sit the Alcazaba (in the family as Sevilla’s Alcazar and Granada’s Alhambra) and another castle. On the other side is the Mediterranean Sea. We spent Friday afternoon (wiped out after our 6:00 AM departure) and Sunday morning (before our train home) on the beach, lying in the “sand” and watching the boats go by. I came very close to jumping in on Sunday (since I was already knee deep), but the prospect of a three-hour train ride with wet clothes was unappealing. We bought baguettes and lunchmeat at the supermarket and had picnics on the beach. Saturday was Día de Andalucía, a very important regional holiday. As a result, several tourist attractions were closed. However, we still got to sightsee, including the Picasso museum (Picasso lived in Málaga until he was ten). The highlight was the bullfight. Oh yes. Because of the holiday, the bullring of Málaga hosted an amateur bullfight, where all the up-and-coming toreadors could do their thing. By pure luck, we walked by and heard the trumpets. Admission was free, so we joined the crowd three rows back.
WARNING: THIS NEXT CHUNK CONTAINS GRAPHIC DETAILS!
This was one of the most intense experiences of my life. General outline of a bullfight: The first step is to tire out the bull. The toreador makes him run around a lot via shaking the red (pink, in this case) cloth. To further weaken the bull, the toreador stabs him between the shoulder blades with these fancy pokers, which decoratively hang from the bull for the rest of the corrida. After running the bull around more to further tire him and give the event suspense, the toreador stabs the bull and kills it. I had this romanticized view of all this; I thought the bull hardly noticed the pokers, had a grand old time playing with the cloth, then the toreador smacked the bull with the sword and it immediately died. Au contraire. When we arrived, the bull already had the pokers hanging. We realized, when we saw the glossy blood covering the bull’s front half, that this was going to be way more intense than the videos we had previously seen. The toreador, who could not have been more than eighteen, continued. At times, perhaps since this was the amateur show, he lost control. There were a couple times that the bull’s horns were perilously close to the boy, which made me quite nervous. The couple of times he dropped his cloth the older toreadors would run out with their own cloths to distract the bull while the toreador found his footing. The brown bull became increasingly bloody as his wounds continued to ooze. He was also making sounds, cries, as he continued to participate. Finally, when the bull was right in front of our section, in a swift movement the toreador inserted his sword all the way between the bull’s shoulder blades. I was horrified but could not look away, and slightly wanted to vomit all over the stadium. I hadn’t realized that the sword goes all the way in!!! I wondered where it went after, looking on the ground, then found it. In fact, this sword happened to go all the way through and poke out the bull’s belly. The bull stayed on foot, moaning this horrible, horrible moan, as blood started pouring out of its lower wound. As the bull cried, blood came rushing out its mouth as well. The beautiful young brown bull in front of us was bleeding out of every orifice, yet so completely alive still. The bull instinctively responded when the toreador waved his cloth for the final time and made its move. The point of this, as shown here, was to make the bull fall, finally. To my pleasure, they soon put the bull out of its misery. While it was on the ground bleeding and crying, two older men came over and wiggled a knife around in the bull’s neck to end it all. It’s legs twitched for a while after. Ugh. The other man sawed off the bull’s ear, a custom to present the toreador with a “trophy.” As they latched the now dead bull to the horse-drawn apparatus to remove it from the stadium, the young toreador proudly walked around the stadium, bowing and waving to his cheering fans, who were waving white handkerchiefs in the air in congratulations. He threw the ear to an adoring fan (a small boy) as the trumpet players played the customary music. The bull disappeared out of the stadium, and other crewmembers ran onto the dirt to shovel up the blood and smooth everything out. We stayed for the second bull. This one was really feisty, and the new toreador lacked the control that the first one had. There were several more incidents where the toreador dropped his cloth, and he had far more near-accidents with the horns than the first one had had. In the end, he had trouble killing it. His first stab missed, and the bull was unscathed enough to have all his faculties and he was REALLY mad. The experts came on, removed the sword, and gave it back to the kid. He was allowed another stab, which was better, but due partly to the sheer mass of the bull, wasn’t as affective as was the first one we witnessed. They counted it as good enough, got the bull of his feet, and the experts finished the job right away.
This was absolutely incredible. Before I left for Spain, a woman told me that her daughter had gone to a bullfight while in Spain. She was horrified, disgusted, and appalled for the first bull. By the end (usually five bulls later) she was standing up and cheering along with the Spaniards. I found this a little hard to believe, but felt a similar transition even in the second bull. I looked around a bit more, and took in the audience. It was mostly families, complete with grandparents and small children, celebrating Dia de Andalusia. I had to admit that I wanted to stay for more bulls. The rest of the group couldn’t take anymore, so we left, but I was already feeling it as a sheer cultural experience. I am SO SO glad that we found this bullfight. It is such a Spanish thing, but I don’t know if I really would have paid at least fifty euros to sit in the farthest, top grandstand at the Plaza de Toros to see a real bullfight. Instead, I got to be about ten feet away from the ring completely for free. This was such an incredible experience that I will absolutely never forget. If I remember, I will post the link to pictures and even videos (don’t worry, the camera was off for the deaths)!
Fotos: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2008923&id=1232310007&l=33cb6b300a
WARNING: THIS NEXT CHUNK CONTAINS GRAPHIC DETAILS!
This was one of the most intense experiences of my life. General outline of a bullfight: The first step is to tire out the bull. The toreador makes him run around a lot via shaking the red (pink, in this case) cloth. To further weaken the bull, the toreador stabs him between the shoulder blades with these fancy pokers, which decoratively hang from the bull for the rest of the corrida. After running the bull around more to further tire him and give the event suspense, the toreador stabs the bull and kills it. I had this romanticized view of all this; I thought the bull hardly noticed the pokers, had a grand old time playing with the cloth, then the toreador smacked the bull with the sword and it immediately died. Au contraire. When we arrived, the bull already had the pokers hanging. We realized, when we saw the glossy blood covering the bull’s front half, that this was going to be way more intense than the videos we had previously seen. The toreador, who could not have been more than eighteen, continued. At times, perhaps since this was the amateur show, he lost control. There were a couple times that the bull’s horns were perilously close to the boy, which made me quite nervous. The couple of times he dropped his cloth the older toreadors would run out with their own cloths to distract the bull while the toreador found his footing. The brown bull became increasingly bloody as his wounds continued to ooze. He was also making sounds, cries, as he continued to participate. Finally, when the bull was right in front of our section, in a swift movement the toreador inserted his sword all the way between the bull’s shoulder blades. I was horrified but could not look away, and slightly wanted to vomit all over the stadium. I hadn’t realized that the sword goes all the way in!!! I wondered where it went after, looking on the ground, then found it. In fact, this sword happened to go all the way through and poke out the bull’s belly. The bull stayed on foot, moaning this horrible, horrible moan, as blood started pouring out of its lower wound. As the bull cried, blood came rushing out its mouth as well. The beautiful young brown bull in front of us was bleeding out of every orifice, yet so completely alive still. The bull instinctively responded when the toreador waved his cloth for the final time and made its move. The point of this, as shown here, was to make the bull fall, finally. To my pleasure, they soon put the bull out of its misery. While it was on the ground bleeding and crying, two older men came over and wiggled a knife around in the bull’s neck to end it all. It’s legs twitched for a while after. Ugh. The other man sawed off the bull’s ear, a custom to present the toreador with a “trophy.” As they latched the now dead bull to the horse-drawn apparatus to remove it from the stadium, the young toreador proudly walked around the stadium, bowing and waving to his cheering fans, who were waving white handkerchiefs in the air in congratulations. He threw the ear to an adoring fan (a small boy) as the trumpet players played the customary music. The bull disappeared out of the stadium, and other crewmembers ran onto the dirt to shovel up the blood and smooth everything out. We stayed for the second bull. This one was really feisty, and the new toreador lacked the control that the first one had. There were several more incidents where the toreador dropped his cloth, and he had far more near-accidents with the horns than the first one had had. In the end, he had trouble killing it. His first stab missed, and the bull was unscathed enough to have all his faculties and he was REALLY mad. The experts came on, removed the sword, and gave it back to the kid. He was allowed another stab, which was better, but due partly to the sheer mass of the bull, wasn’t as affective as was the first one we witnessed. They counted it as good enough, got the bull of his feet, and the experts finished the job right away.
This was absolutely incredible. Before I left for Spain, a woman told me that her daughter had gone to a bullfight while in Spain. She was horrified, disgusted, and appalled for the first bull. By the end (usually five bulls later) she was standing up and cheering along with the Spaniards. I found this a little hard to believe, but felt a similar transition even in the second bull. I looked around a bit more, and took in the audience. It was mostly families, complete with grandparents and small children, celebrating Dia de Andalusia. I had to admit that I wanted to stay for more bulls. The rest of the group couldn’t take anymore, so we left, but I was already feeling it as a sheer cultural experience. I am SO SO glad that we found this bullfight. It is such a Spanish thing, but I don’t know if I really would have paid at least fifty euros to sit in the farthest, top grandstand at the Plaza de Toros to see a real bullfight. Instead, I got to be about ten feet away from the ring completely for free. This was such an incredible experience that I will absolutely never forget. If I remember, I will post the link to pictures and even videos (don’t worry, the camera was off for the deaths)!
Fotos: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2008923&id=1232310007&l=33cb6b300a
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Classes update!!
I am really enjoying my classes.
1. Art History. I am learning so much. There are a whole lot of new words in Spanish all at once (boveda=dome, vidriera=stained glass, etc.) but my professor (Concha) is so great. She speaks so slowly and clearly and repeats everything, which must be painful for her, but I am following and learning a lot, both about art and history. I’m really looking forward to the rest of this class, and getting even more out of the Cathedral and Museo de Belles Artes when we go with the class. It took me all class today (well at least till the first paining) to realize that this random dude named “Miguel Angel” is simply Spanish for “Michelangelo.”
2. History of Flamenco. Really interesting, really fun. My professor is a young, fashionable woman named Pepa. She is also a dynamic teacher, and makes class really fun. Since it is a flamenco class, it hardly makes sense to simply sit in our seats. The first week we learned complicated clapping rhythms (palmas) and the proper hand formation. The next class we added some feet as well. The second week we started singing a little (score!), and yesterday we got up to practice our arm and hand movements. Pepa’s father is an accomplished flamenco singer, and it certainly is genetic. She sings things for us to demonstrate, and I realized that she’s really, really good. I have learned so much about the history of Spain in this class.
3. Tres Culturas. Again, interesting, learning a lot. This is definitely my most serious academic class. My professor is a young [attractive] man who has taught in the States as well. I know very little about European history or religion, and I am learning so much. The readings are interesting, and the class structure keeps it interesting. Kai’s in class with me, and we work together, which is nice.
I’m glad to finally have a semester where I am enjoying my classes and learning a lot. I am glad that I have all of my classes with CIEE, because they pick great professors.
But wait.
4. Comparative and Contrastive Syntax.
This class is incredible. A)My Spanish is improving soooo much. B)Every class involves uncontrollable laughter. It’s difficult to describe the point of the class. I think it should be mandatory for every second-language learner, since I am learning so much. I guess it just helps express ourselves in Spanish as we would like to in English? It’s hard to explain but it’s great.
The professor is so funny. Try to imagine a fifty-year-old man with a stylish haircut wearing super-stylish clothes. He comes in in his little distressed, faded, whiskered jeans and his layered shirts and sweaters; he could be a model. A model that does ridiculous things:
1. Every time someone messes up something obvious or annoying, he announces his desire to die. “La cosa mas buena...” “BOWL OF POISON.” “La proxima dia...” “TEN BULLETS. RIGHT HERE.” He started a new route this week. Someone messed up, and he calmly said, “Give me a sandwich of anthrax.” He’s been overusing the anthrax since, so hopefully he’s looking up some other dangerous substances for next week. At one point he said “Recuerda dos mil y dos” which no one seemed to hear except me. I remembered that 2002 was the year of anthrax. Oh, Antonio. Perhaps you have to be there, but it’s hilarious.
2. Whenever he’s saying something in English, he uses a thick British accent, which is just funny. He made Kai use it while reading aloud yesterday. He told us his three pet peeves in Spanish: “cumple” for cumpleanos, “profe” for professor, and “fin de” for “fin de semana.” Later that class, to practice the verb soler, Antonio asked me if I usually eat dinner with friends on the weekends. I responded, “Suelo cenar con amigos en el FIN DE,” to annoy him. He shook his head and said in the thickest British accent yet, “Sophia Crafts you are BAD!” I enjoyed this.
3. Antonio told Scott (classmate) to “call” a girl across the room to “make plans.” After they had adequately rehearsed quedarse, Scott was ready to hang up. However, Antonio told him to say something nice to the girl on the phone. He told her he looked forward to seeing her. Antonio wanted nicer. Scott wasn’t allowed to “hang up” until he told the girl across the room that her eyes were like the sunset.
4. Antonio chose this guy Andrew to be the singer of the class. He’ll sneak in as many song lyrics as possible to our homework, then make Andrew sing into the whiteboard eraser for every example. These always include grammar stuff we’re working on, but singing them in English is fine.
5. Antonio chose the same Andrew to call Elsa, from Clark, across the room to make plans. He asked if she was free that night, and per Antonio’s gestures, she said she wasn’t. Andrew persisted, and asked if she was free the following night. Antonio was frantically indicating for her to say no, so she did. Elsa turned Andrew down a third time, and Antonio loudly whispered to Andrew to “say something about anthrax.” Andrew angrily told Elsa to give him a sandwich of anthrax.
6. Occasionally, when we’re reading in English, he has us use a “Triana accent” (that of a Spanish speaker sounding out English). Also fun.
7. He makes the occasional English mistake, which are already endearing. He explained the grammatical difference between when someone is always [blank] verses temporarily acting [blank]. He pulled out the British accent and proclaimed, “Juan behaves like a stupid!” (British, so styoopid.) This was also a favorite.
Enough Antonio for now, hopefully you don’t have to be there, I promise there will be more about him.
Preview for next time: weekend in Malaga, Bullfight, stuff about Seville that I never wrote about.
1. Art History. I am learning so much. There are a whole lot of new words in Spanish all at once (boveda=dome, vidriera=stained glass, etc.) but my professor (Concha) is so great. She speaks so slowly and clearly and repeats everything, which must be painful for her, but I am following and learning a lot, both about art and history. I’m really looking forward to the rest of this class, and getting even more out of the Cathedral and Museo de Belles Artes when we go with the class. It took me all class today (well at least till the first paining) to realize that this random dude named “Miguel Angel” is simply Spanish for “Michelangelo.”
2. History of Flamenco. Really interesting, really fun. My professor is a young, fashionable woman named Pepa. She is also a dynamic teacher, and makes class really fun. Since it is a flamenco class, it hardly makes sense to simply sit in our seats. The first week we learned complicated clapping rhythms (palmas) and the proper hand formation. The next class we added some feet as well. The second week we started singing a little (score!), and yesterday we got up to practice our arm and hand movements. Pepa’s father is an accomplished flamenco singer, and it certainly is genetic. She sings things for us to demonstrate, and I realized that she’s really, really good. I have learned so much about the history of Spain in this class.
3. Tres Culturas. Again, interesting, learning a lot. This is definitely my most serious academic class. My professor is a young [attractive] man who has taught in the States as well. I know very little about European history or religion, and I am learning so much. The readings are interesting, and the class structure keeps it interesting. Kai’s in class with me, and we work together, which is nice.
I’m glad to finally have a semester where I am enjoying my classes and learning a lot. I am glad that I have all of my classes with CIEE, because they pick great professors.
But wait.
4. Comparative and Contrastive Syntax.
This class is incredible. A)My Spanish is improving soooo much. B)Every class involves uncontrollable laughter. It’s difficult to describe the point of the class. I think it should be mandatory for every second-language learner, since I am learning so much. I guess it just helps express ourselves in Spanish as we would like to in English? It’s hard to explain but it’s great.
The professor is so funny. Try to imagine a fifty-year-old man with a stylish haircut wearing super-stylish clothes. He comes in in his little distressed, faded, whiskered jeans and his layered shirts and sweaters; he could be a model. A model that does ridiculous things:
1. Every time someone messes up something obvious or annoying, he announces his desire to die. “La cosa mas buena...” “BOWL OF POISON.” “La proxima dia...” “TEN BULLETS. RIGHT HERE.” He started a new route this week. Someone messed up, and he calmly said, “Give me a sandwich of anthrax.” He’s been overusing the anthrax since, so hopefully he’s looking up some other dangerous substances for next week. At one point he said “Recuerda dos mil y dos” which no one seemed to hear except me. I remembered that 2002 was the year of anthrax. Oh, Antonio. Perhaps you have to be there, but it’s hilarious.
2. Whenever he’s saying something in English, he uses a thick British accent, which is just funny. He made Kai use it while reading aloud yesterday. He told us his three pet peeves in Spanish: “cumple” for cumpleanos, “profe” for professor, and “fin de” for “fin de semana.” Later that class, to practice the verb soler, Antonio asked me if I usually eat dinner with friends on the weekends. I responded, “Suelo cenar con amigos en el FIN DE,” to annoy him. He shook his head and said in the thickest British accent yet, “Sophia Crafts you are BAD!” I enjoyed this.
3. Antonio told Scott (classmate) to “call” a girl across the room to “make plans.” After they had adequately rehearsed quedarse, Scott was ready to hang up. However, Antonio told him to say something nice to the girl on the phone. He told her he looked forward to seeing her. Antonio wanted nicer. Scott wasn’t allowed to “hang up” until he told the girl across the room that her eyes were like the sunset.
4. Antonio chose this guy Andrew to be the singer of the class. He’ll sneak in as many song lyrics as possible to our homework, then make Andrew sing into the whiteboard eraser for every example. These always include grammar stuff we’re working on, but singing them in English is fine.
5. Antonio chose the same Andrew to call Elsa, from Clark, across the room to make plans. He asked if she was free that night, and per Antonio’s gestures, she said she wasn’t. Andrew persisted, and asked if she was free the following night. Antonio was frantically indicating for her to say no, so she did. Elsa turned Andrew down a third time, and Antonio loudly whispered to Andrew to “say something about anthrax.” Andrew angrily told Elsa to give him a sandwich of anthrax.
6. Occasionally, when we’re reading in English, he has us use a “Triana accent” (that of a Spanish speaker sounding out English). Also fun.
7. He makes the occasional English mistake, which are already endearing. He explained the grammatical difference between when someone is always [blank] verses temporarily acting [blank]. He pulled out the British accent and proclaimed, “Juan behaves like a stupid!” (British, so styoopid.) This was also a favorite.
Enough Antonio for now, hopefully you don’t have to be there, I promise there will be more about him.
Preview for next time: weekend in Malaga, Bullfight, stuff about Seville that I never wrote about.
Marta
I wanted to share the big news story here. It is very sad, and it was definitely getting me down last week. Soon after I arrived in Sevilla, a seventeen-year-old girl was reported missing. I saw it first on the news, and then saw the “Desaparecida” signs hung all over town. It appeared that she had not run away (she hadn’t taken clothes or money), so it was a mystery. Finally, after a month, her ex-boyfriend confessed to murdering her. Marta’s family reported that the boyfriend was always really aggressive and possessive of Marta, and they suspected him all along. The ex-boyfriend, Miguel, was reported to have said something along the lines of “If I can’t have her then nobody can” and got her to come out one Saturday night. His two friends and him hit her over the head and threw her in the river. It’s so, so sad (I cross that same river every day) and it breaks my heart to see her parents speaking on TV. There was some confusion: I somehow heard that they couldn’t convict the three without the body, even though they confessed. Someone else’s senora said that that was not true (love this game... “but MY senora said...”). It’s crazy that this happened in MY city, and that people I know actually knew her (my former host mother’s niece). There´s an argument for parents: the boyfriend´s mom died when he was three and his dad is an alcoholic. He has been living with the family of his new girlfriend, who is fourteen. Anyway, that’s been on my mind.
February 23 to 26
February 23-26
To recover from Carnaval, Ally, Sasha and I had a good old-fashioned movie night Monday night. Ally lives in a big apartment in Los Remedios, the neighborhood next to Triana (where I live) on the same side of the river. She lives with a Senora and the senora’s sister, who is very sick. Ally is allowed to have people over whenever. We rendezvoused there after choir for me; I stopped to buy microwave popcorn and chocolate, Ally went to the one-euro movie rental place right next door. This was just what we needed. The three of us piled onto Ally’s bed and ate junk food and watched an American movie (we meant to put the Spanish subtitles on or something, but we forgot). It was nice to just take it easy and get wholesome time with my friends. It was pretty late after, and I didn’t want to walk home. Sasha and Ally both have their Sevici passes. Sevici is a bike rental system in Sevilla. There are stations all over the city where you can pick up and drop off bikes. Right then Sasha helped me buy my week-long pass for five Euros. A year-old pass costs only ten euros, and mine is in the mail! This was a great discovery. I had been wary of the bikes before because of my knees and my lack of helmet, but the time had come. Ally’s house to mine was all on the bike path, and I was glad to find a drop-off station right near my house. However, in the days that followed, I experienced every problem possible with the bikes.
The next day I rode to school. I see people riding Sevici bikes all the time, and they stick to the normal roads and paths and no one has any trouble. That was before I came along. I attempted my normal walking route on a bike. The difference between biking in Seville and biking in Leverett is the existence of cars and people. I didn’t hit anyone [hard] but I acquired several bruises, got my tire stuck in the tram track, and generally had some trouble.
The next day I decided to stick to the bike lanes. On the side of many sidewalks, there is a green lane designated for bikers. If a biker hits a pedestrian walking in this lane, the pedestrian has to pay eighty euros. I obviously starting aiming for them once I learned this. I worked out my route, which was not very direct but seemed safer for all of Seville. The problem I had this time was actually wardrobe-related. All of my laundry was drying, so I had to get creative. I was wearing a very short dress with tights which had big holes towards the tops. The combination of this outfit and being a blonde in Spain is not good. I got many looks and comments, mostly from disapproving old ladies, on my way in. Problem #4 occurred on my way home. Once again I stuck to the bike paths. However, I was pretty unfamiliar with them, and somehow got going in the complete wrong direction. I figured I would find something I recognized eventually. Eventually, I confirmed that I had no idea where I was, and asked a woman which direction the river was in. She showed me, and I continued on. I found the river, but I was about five bridges too far downstream. In fact, I was on the side of the highway. This was another lowpoint, being all alone, still lost, on the side of the highway with a short dress and ripped tights, on a bike without a helmet, nonetheless. I was relieved when I found the river again, this time at a better place, and an hour later ended up at home, very late for lunch.
Still not put off, I got another bike for the commute in for my evening class. On the way back I was expecting a smooth ride. I had changed my clothes and I knew where I was going. However, every bike in the city was broken. It was humorous by the time I switched bikes for the third time (it was six total going home). The bikes I used experienced these problems: a flat tire, a thrown chain, a missing handle, bad brakes, a missing pedal, gears that didn’t shift, and an unadjustable seat. There were literally no adequate bikes at this hour (they fix them in the mornings).
Nonetheless, Sevici has still been a positive thing. Now that I have it down, it makes my commute so much easier, and I feel really good biking around. My friend Daniel shared my pass last week, and my long-term won’t come for another week, so I think Daniel is going to buy the week-long which I will share this week. I love passing other Sevici bikers; this helps me feel like a real Sevillian.
To recover from Carnaval, Ally, Sasha and I had a good old-fashioned movie night Monday night. Ally lives in a big apartment in Los Remedios, the neighborhood next to Triana (where I live) on the same side of the river. She lives with a Senora and the senora’s sister, who is very sick. Ally is allowed to have people over whenever. We rendezvoused there after choir for me; I stopped to buy microwave popcorn and chocolate, Ally went to the one-euro movie rental place right next door. This was just what we needed. The three of us piled onto Ally’s bed and ate junk food and watched an American movie (we meant to put the Spanish subtitles on or something, but we forgot). It was nice to just take it easy and get wholesome time with my friends. It was pretty late after, and I didn’t want to walk home. Sasha and Ally both have their Sevici passes. Sevici is a bike rental system in Sevilla. There are stations all over the city where you can pick up and drop off bikes. Right then Sasha helped me buy my week-long pass for five Euros. A year-old pass costs only ten euros, and mine is in the mail! This was a great discovery. I had been wary of the bikes before because of my knees and my lack of helmet, but the time had come. Ally’s house to mine was all on the bike path, and I was glad to find a drop-off station right near my house. However, in the days that followed, I experienced every problem possible with the bikes.
The next day I rode to school. I see people riding Sevici bikes all the time, and they stick to the normal roads and paths and no one has any trouble. That was before I came along. I attempted my normal walking route on a bike. The difference between biking in Seville and biking in Leverett is the existence of cars and people. I didn’t hit anyone [hard] but I acquired several bruises, got my tire stuck in the tram track, and generally had some trouble.
The next day I decided to stick to the bike lanes. On the side of many sidewalks, there is a green lane designated for bikers. If a biker hits a pedestrian walking in this lane, the pedestrian has to pay eighty euros. I obviously starting aiming for them once I learned this. I worked out my route, which was not very direct but seemed safer for all of Seville. The problem I had this time was actually wardrobe-related. All of my laundry was drying, so I had to get creative. I was wearing a very short dress with tights which had big holes towards the tops. The combination of this outfit and being a blonde in Spain is not good. I got many looks and comments, mostly from disapproving old ladies, on my way in. Problem #4 occurred on my way home. Once again I stuck to the bike paths. However, I was pretty unfamiliar with them, and somehow got going in the complete wrong direction. I figured I would find something I recognized eventually. Eventually, I confirmed that I had no idea where I was, and asked a woman which direction the river was in. She showed me, and I continued on. I found the river, but I was about five bridges too far downstream. In fact, I was on the side of the highway. This was another lowpoint, being all alone, still lost, on the side of the highway with a short dress and ripped tights, on a bike without a helmet, nonetheless. I was relieved when I found the river again, this time at a better place, and an hour later ended up at home, very late for lunch.
Still not put off, I got another bike for the commute in for my evening class. On the way back I was expecting a smooth ride. I had changed my clothes and I knew where I was going. However, every bike in the city was broken. It was humorous by the time I switched bikes for the third time (it was six total going home). The bikes I used experienced these problems: a flat tire, a thrown chain, a missing handle, bad brakes, a missing pedal, gears that didn’t shift, and an unadjustable seat. There were literally no adequate bikes at this hour (they fix them in the mornings).
Nonetheless, Sevici has still been a positive thing. Now that I have it down, it makes my commute so much easier, and I feel really good biking around. My friend Daniel shared my pass last week, and my long-term won’t come for another week, so I think Daniel is going to buy the week-long which I will share this week. I love passing other Sevici bikers; this helps me feel like a real Sevillian.
Carnaval, etc.
Weekend of February 19-22:
I got a call last Thursday from Sarah Y, a good friend of mine from my a cappella group who is studying in Madrid this semester. She was visiting Andalusia for the weekend, so I got to see her a bit on Thursday afternoon. I got her royally lost, as I do best, but it was so great to see her and compare our Spanish experiences so far. She gushed at how cute and little Seville is. Ha.
Saturday was Carnaval in Cadiz. This was my first seriously negative experience so far. We spent all day preparing our costumes. I was lamenting my lack of costume stuff, since I have so much at home, and flipped through my closet here for inspiration. Luckily, I came across the “Yo Soy Fan de Gonzalo” vest from the bachelor party in Granada. After a few stops and about ten euros, Kai and I were fully equipped as Trash Fairies. We wore the vests with pretty pink wings, and put together toolbelts with wands and kid-sized cleaning supplies. We received many compliments, and didn’t lose each other the entire night (a plus of reflective vests). Sasha and Ally looked equally great as Fire and Water.
I don’t know that I expected for Carnaval, but this was not it. I guess I thought there would be like Andalusian traditions; food, music, dancing. Instead, it was just a drunken craze. We went through “We Love Spain,” a travel group targeting college students. Therefore, the bunch of buses were full of Americans planning (and starting) to get completely wasted. The group leaders made sure a hundred times over that we knew that the bus was leaving at 6:00 AM whether we were on it or not. We signed the liability form stating that we knew this. We began our evening around 11:00 pm, and I was already ready for bed. The following hours consisted of fighting through groups of drunken people, wading through vomit and bottles on the ground, and dreaming of my bed. I also received more male attention than I’ve ever wanted. I’m used to comments, but the two blonds together in a mass of drunk men was too much. People followed us and tried to grab us and it was not fun. We met up with other Clarkies who are studying in Madrid, which was nice, but it increased our group number which was hard to keep track of. There were three things that were actually enjoyable:
1. Peeing. Peeing at carnaval takes place in alleys. At one point Sasha, Ally, Sasha’s friend from high school who we met up with and I went as a group to find an alley. We are not yet experts at this art, so we simply formed a pee wall. The three non-pee-ers made a wall and held our jackets between us so the fourth could pee in privacy, and we rotated out. It was funny and great friend bonding. The Spanish women who know what they’re doing thought it was the funniest thing in the world.
2. Observing costumes. This was more appalling than entertaining, but people-watching has never been more strange. Since political correctness does not exist here, every ethnic group imaginable was represented in costumes. I don’t think I could have thought of that many different types of blackface costumes if I tried. Most people had store bought costumes (every other store in Sevilla stocked up on costumes) and walked around in big packs with the same costumes. We walked by a pack of chickens, a pack of sexy nuns, a pack of “Chinos,” a pack of Rastas, etc. Kai and I received greetings and high fives from other people with yellow vests.
3. As luck would have it, I managed to find the choir performance. Singing groups all around Andalusia compete for the privilege to sing at Carnaval. The winning group mounts the bandstand around 2:00 AM, as we happened to be walking by. This group was great, all men in sharp white uniforms (complete with top hats and coattails) accompanied by a few instruments (I couldn’t see what, at least guitar). They sang cheerful, upbeat Andalusian folk songs (?) with fabulously animated faces and choreographed arm movements. The majority of our group hung back in the plaza, but Rob (from Clark, studying in Madrid, a friend through my sophomore roommate and through sustainability/environment club/events) and I easily entered the VIP section right in front to watch. We were both cheering, dancing, and clapping along with the rest of the [drunk] audience, and this was highly enjoyable, despite the circumstances.
I’m sure I would have had more fun if I had had anything to drink, but I needed to stay awake until 6:00 AM, I didn’t want to pee outside again, and I felt that our group needed a sober leader. Generally speaking, I’m not a big drinker, which makes it shocking that I even chose to go to Carnaval. Around 4:00 AM Sasha and I were totally over it, and managed to separate Kai and Ally from the Madrid group. We really wanted to find the beach and just get away from the throngs. We pulled our group, a chain with hands held, through the masses in the direction of the water. We managed to see water, but there was no way to access it. We figured they had blocked it off so drunk people wouldn’t drown. We decided to start making our way back to the meeting point, since we had no idea where it was, and we really didn’t want to be late. After seeing many “cops” (costumes) peeing, Sasha and I finally found a real cop whom we asked directions. It turns out we were very close to where we had to be. Therefore, we arrived about an hour and a half early. Sasha and I were fine with that, and set up camp to wait. We killed much of this time talking to Spanish people, which was actually good practice. I was proud of how well I was speaking then, even though I was cold, tired, and cranky, and held my own very well. I even used complicated verb tenses such as, “If you stop asking me where I’m from I will take a picture with you.” A few hours ago we had committed to speaking Spanish, since there were so many Americans and people speaking to us in English, which was actually fun. People would speak English and we would look at each other, confused, for help. When we were asked where we were from, Sasha and I casually responded, “Sevilla.” We gave a group of young Rastas the frustrating “maybe” answer for every country they guessed, which included every country in Europe before the US.
We finally got on the bus, where the two young female group leaders were too drunk to function. They took attendance several times, but could not figure out what was going on. It started to be amusing when they reached their literally thirtieth headcount, each time resulting in a different number. Even though everyone had signed the form, they refused to leave at six with two girls missing. One of the missing girls had come on the bus, told them that she was staying, and left. We all reminded the leader of this, to no avail. “Why is there an empty seat???” “Because Jessica’s not coming back with us.” “And nobody cared to tell me this??” Needless to say, I was happy to get back to Sevilla (even if it was 8:30 AM) and Kai and I stopped to get a warm freshly-baked croissant on the walk back. Not only did I have a terrible time, but my shoes were covered in other people’s vomit and urine, and this experience totally screwed up my sleep schedule. I hate sleeping til 10:00, so dragging myself out of bed at 3:30 PM was depressing. What made things even worse was that there was another hiking trip that Sunday. I would have loved to go, and knew after the fact that skipping carnaval and hiking instead would have made for a great weekend. The lesson learned is that it’s important to do research before doing things and going places, and doing everything I can isn’t necessarily the goal I want. I just hope Feria in Seville is better (I’ve heard it’s the same), and I fear for my perfect little plazas, after seeing what Cadiz looked like. And that was the worst experience I’ve had so far.
I got a call last Thursday from Sarah Y, a good friend of mine from my a cappella group who is studying in Madrid this semester. She was visiting Andalusia for the weekend, so I got to see her a bit on Thursday afternoon. I got her royally lost, as I do best, but it was so great to see her and compare our Spanish experiences so far. She gushed at how cute and little Seville is. Ha.
Saturday was Carnaval in Cadiz. This was my first seriously negative experience so far. We spent all day preparing our costumes. I was lamenting my lack of costume stuff, since I have so much at home, and flipped through my closet here for inspiration. Luckily, I came across the “Yo Soy Fan de Gonzalo” vest from the bachelor party in Granada. After a few stops and about ten euros, Kai and I were fully equipped as Trash Fairies. We wore the vests with pretty pink wings, and put together toolbelts with wands and kid-sized cleaning supplies. We received many compliments, and didn’t lose each other the entire night (a plus of reflective vests). Sasha and Ally looked equally great as Fire and Water.
I don’t know that I expected for Carnaval, but this was not it. I guess I thought there would be like Andalusian traditions; food, music, dancing. Instead, it was just a drunken craze. We went through “We Love Spain,” a travel group targeting college students. Therefore, the bunch of buses were full of Americans planning (and starting) to get completely wasted. The group leaders made sure a hundred times over that we knew that the bus was leaving at 6:00 AM whether we were on it or not. We signed the liability form stating that we knew this. We began our evening around 11:00 pm, and I was already ready for bed. The following hours consisted of fighting through groups of drunken people, wading through vomit and bottles on the ground, and dreaming of my bed. I also received more male attention than I’ve ever wanted. I’m used to comments, but the two blonds together in a mass of drunk men was too much. People followed us and tried to grab us and it was not fun. We met up with other Clarkies who are studying in Madrid, which was nice, but it increased our group number which was hard to keep track of. There were three things that were actually enjoyable:
1. Peeing. Peeing at carnaval takes place in alleys. At one point Sasha, Ally, Sasha’s friend from high school who we met up with and I went as a group to find an alley. We are not yet experts at this art, so we simply formed a pee wall. The three non-pee-ers made a wall and held our jackets between us so the fourth could pee in privacy, and we rotated out. It was funny and great friend bonding. The Spanish women who know what they’re doing thought it was the funniest thing in the world.
2. Observing costumes. This was more appalling than entertaining, but people-watching has never been more strange. Since political correctness does not exist here, every ethnic group imaginable was represented in costumes. I don’t think I could have thought of that many different types of blackface costumes if I tried. Most people had store bought costumes (every other store in Sevilla stocked up on costumes) and walked around in big packs with the same costumes. We walked by a pack of chickens, a pack of sexy nuns, a pack of “Chinos,” a pack of Rastas, etc. Kai and I received greetings and high fives from other people with yellow vests.
3. As luck would have it, I managed to find the choir performance. Singing groups all around Andalusia compete for the privilege to sing at Carnaval. The winning group mounts the bandstand around 2:00 AM, as we happened to be walking by. This group was great, all men in sharp white uniforms (complete with top hats and coattails) accompanied by a few instruments (I couldn’t see what, at least guitar). They sang cheerful, upbeat Andalusian folk songs (?) with fabulously animated faces and choreographed arm movements. The majority of our group hung back in the plaza, but Rob (from Clark, studying in Madrid, a friend through my sophomore roommate and through sustainability/environment club/events) and I easily entered the VIP section right in front to watch. We were both cheering, dancing, and clapping along with the rest of the [drunk] audience, and this was highly enjoyable, despite the circumstances.
I’m sure I would have had more fun if I had had anything to drink, but I needed to stay awake until 6:00 AM, I didn’t want to pee outside again, and I felt that our group needed a sober leader. Generally speaking, I’m not a big drinker, which makes it shocking that I even chose to go to Carnaval. Around 4:00 AM Sasha and I were totally over it, and managed to separate Kai and Ally from the Madrid group. We really wanted to find the beach and just get away from the throngs. We pulled our group, a chain with hands held, through the masses in the direction of the water. We managed to see water, but there was no way to access it. We figured they had blocked it off so drunk people wouldn’t drown. We decided to start making our way back to the meeting point, since we had no idea where it was, and we really didn’t want to be late. After seeing many “cops” (costumes) peeing, Sasha and I finally found a real cop whom we asked directions. It turns out we were very close to where we had to be. Therefore, we arrived about an hour and a half early. Sasha and I were fine with that, and set up camp to wait. We killed much of this time talking to Spanish people, which was actually good practice. I was proud of how well I was speaking then, even though I was cold, tired, and cranky, and held my own very well. I even used complicated verb tenses such as, “If you stop asking me where I’m from I will take a picture with you.” A few hours ago we had committed to speaking Spanish, since there were so many Americans and people speaking to us in English, which was actually fun. People would speak English and we would look at each other, confused, for help. When we were asked where we were from, Sasha and I casually responded, “Sevilla.” We gave a group of young Rastas the frustrating “maybe” answer for every country they guessed, which included every country in Europe before the US.
We finally got on the bus, where the two young female group leaders were too drunk to function. They took attendance several times, but could not figure out what was going on. It started to be amusing when they reached their literally thirtieth headcount, each time resulting in a different number. Even though everyone had signed the form, they refused to leave at six with two girls missing. One of the missing girls had come on the bus, told them that she was staying, and left. We all reminded the leader of this, to no avail. “Why is there an empty seat???” “Because Jessica’s not coming back with us.” “And nobody cared to tell me this??” Needless to say, I was happy to get back to Sevilla (even if it was 8:30 AM) and Kai and I stopped to get a warm freshly-baked croissant on the walk back. Not only did I have a terrible time, but my shoes were covered in other people’s vomit and urine, and this experience totally screwed up my sleep schedule. I hate sleeping til 10:00, so dragging myself out of bed at 3:30 PM was depressing. What made things even worse was that there was another hiking trip that Sunday. I would have loved to go, and knew after the fact that skipping carnaval and hiking instead would have made for a great weekend. The lesson learned is that it’s important to do research before doing things and going places, and doing everything I can isn’t necessarily the goal I want. I just hope Feria in Seville is better (I’ve heard it’s the same), and I fear for my perfect little plazas, after seeing what Cadiz looked like. And that was the worst experience I’ve had so far.
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