Hey all,
I added a ton of photos to the "Deliberate Tourist" album, chronicling my travels through various parts of Spain and Belgium. Why Belgium, you ask? Because when Ryan Air has 14.99 ticket deals, the choice has already been made. I also created another album with juicy photos and witty captions of my trip to Barcelona. I'm truly sorry that I'm so far behind on my blog, but finals week has cast a cloud of doom upon me with a forecast of 5 exams and a paper. If I make it through the week, I promise to finish what I've started, though the last entry may be from good old Lutherville. I hope those of you at Emory and beyond have a safe, happy, and productive end of the semester, and I cannot wait to see all of the family members in Portland, especially Andrea, Anton, Alexa, and Samantha. Happy Hanukkah to the Jews, Happy Holidays to the rest, and wish me luck on the fun ahead!
Halley
P.S. Yes, I did see Rufus Wainwright twice, in Madrid and in Brussels. And I'm going once more when I'm home. I wasn't lying when I said he was my favorite artist. Say what you will about his music, but look at the pictures and you must admit that he goes all out for his shows.
Monday, December 10, 2007
Monday, December 3, 2007
Hey, Remember That Time I Went to Cadiz By Myself?
Oh, it’s a funny story. But first, I have an important addendum to the last entry, entitled: Capitan Mani Saves the Day. Now let me explain. It took an eight-hour bus ride to the south of Spain and a frenzied, ten-minutes-before-closing shopping trip to the Corte Ingles basement supermarket to find what I had only heard about in rumors. Crunchy Peanut Butter. I knew if I were to find this mythical food of the gods, my best chance would be in the mecca of shopping, otherwise known as El Corte Ingles. I ran through the aisles, ignoring the pestering voice of the announcement pleading for shoppers to vacate the store, and I somehow stumbled upon my prize. Sure, it cost five euros (around $7.30) and was imported from the U.S., but the jar of peanut butter has since given me innumerable amounts of joy. The brand, Capitan Mani, certainly does not appear in the local Kroger or Superfresh of the eastern United States, but it tastes like regular peanut butter, and that’s all that matters. I stole a spoon from my senora’s kitchen, but I have to ration my intake or the jar will be gone within a week. With a little self-control, I can make it last another two weeks until I go home.
Onward, to the story of Cadiz! I was so enchanted by Andalucia that I couldn’t wait to go back, so my friend and I booked a long weekend trip to Cadiz, which is a historic coastal city by the Atlantic Ocean that has kilometers of famous sandy beach. Ok, so I googled average temperatures in Spain for the weekend, and Cadiz boasted the warmest weather, so it wasn’t as much a desire to visit the city as a requirement to sunbathe on the beach. Anyway, the voyage was fraught with various hazards, and it was a surprise that I actually made it to my flight on time. I went to buy a ticket for the train to Madrid, for that is where the nearest major airport is located, and I was kindly told that there were no more tickets available. It turns out my friend bought the last one. I pled with the ticket agents, telling them I was going to miss my flight if I didn’t get on this train, but they were unsympathetic and rather annoyed with my presence. My friend (who will remain anonymous) told me to just get on the train with her, and since she had backpacked extensively through Europe over the summer, I trusted her judgment. I somehow found a seat on the train, and when the conductor came by I made up a story about dropping my ticket, so I just had to buy another one on the train (but since I never bought one in the first place, it was totally fair). We got to Madrid an hour late, for the trains are never on time, and we tried to take the Metro to the airport until I realized that we were definitely not going to Cadiz if we didn’t find a faster way of getting to Barajas. After frantically hailing a taxi and being overcharged by about ten euros, we made it to the check-in counter just in time. I had just received my boarding pass when I noticed that my friend was still at the counter, arguing with the airline staff. She was denied a boarding pass because she didn’t have a physical copy of her passport, even though we were traveling within Spain. It didn’t matter that she kept thrusting her photocopied passport photo at the agent; he continued saying only a full passport was valid. She went through four different staff members and a manager, but the result was the same. With no time to spare, I had to quickly decide my fate for the next three days: lose the cash and head back, defeated but accompanied, to Salamanca, or take a solitary adventure? Surprisingly (but maybe not, seeing as I am Jewish and don’t approve of wasting money), I took my chances and went to Cadiz by myself. Of course, I called my mom and informed her that I wasn’t staying in a hostel any longer, but nonetheless I ventured to a strange place without a companion.
Cadiz was pleasant; I took a cheesy, yet convenient hop-on hop-off bus tour, managed a peaceful stroll on the beach, viewed Spanish artwork, watched The Horse Whisperer in Spanish, and studied for midterms, which wasn’t nearly as pleasant. While it certainly would have been better having a friend on the trip, I have to admit that a weekend of solitude was quite luxurious. I do not have a great deal of time alone in Salamanca; my mornings are spent thinking of ways to kill the Colby kids, all my meals are with my host family, and the rest of my free time is spent doing Spanish grammar. Therefore, a weekend of me wasn’t the worst of possibilities. Besides, I was twice mistaken for a native Spaniard, which is the single greatest compliment one can receive. Of course, as soon as I open my mouth, the person knows I’m American and wants to tell me how much he or she despises our government, but those two seconds of silence are quite wonderful. Being mistaken for a Spaniard means that one has conquered the image of “tourist” and appears confident, fashionable, and slightly jaded, as if the historical circumstances of his or her city are mundane and banal. I’m hoping people usually assume I am a tourist because I lack the requirements of the third quality, not the first two.
Three more points worth mentioning, and then I actually have to stop procrastinating and write my grammar ensayo.
1. When I attend my daily 3-hour grammar session, I honestly feel like I’m in a class for mentally challenged individuals. It’s that bad. The Colby students constantly talk in English, refuse to listen when my teachers tell them to be quiet, and continually get answers wrong on homework because they were talking when the right answers were explained. The other day, I broke down and bitched at one of the girls who just wouldn’t shut up. The glorious sound of silence lasted five minutes.
2. I was sick earlier this week, so I went to one of the public doctors that offer free services for Cursos Internacionales students. Many people harp on the lack of universal public healthcare in the U.S., but I think we need to make certain that any future healthcare system is better than Spain’s version. I waited for about an hour to be seen, which probably isn’t bad at all for a free physician, and when I finally entered his office, my doctor did not hesitate to take a personal phone call. I really do know some Spanish, and my comprehension abilities are astute enough to determine that “Let’s get together for lunch” is not a medical term. I told him I probably had a fever, and he showed his concern by failing to take my temperature or even my blood pressure. He handed me a script for some pills, and only after asking him did he tell me what illness I had. I asked how long I would be sick, and he merely shrugged. The lesson: sure, people take advantage of the free public healthcare, but if they are truly concerned with their health, they go to a private physician. The plus side of the visit was the unbelievable cordiality of my fellow patients. Every time someone entered the waiting room, they would announce “Buenos dias” to the rest of us. It was unbelievably polite and even more unexpected. When I am sick, I just want to curl up in a corner, but these people were actually sociable. Oh Spain, there are some things I will never understand.
3. Many Spaniards, especially elderly senoras, are rigid about the conservation of energy and water, to the point where one of my friends’ senoras turns off the fuse to the kitchen when it is not in use. However, these same old women have no problem donning their full-length fur coats as soon as it gets below 40. Going to the grocery store? Better not forget my mink! A little wind in the air? Never fear, my fox-tail collar will keep me warm. Apparently the conservation of little furry animals is not as important to Spanish women.
13 days and counting!
Halley
Onward, to the story of Cadiz! I was so enchanted by Andalucia that I couldn’t wait to go back, so my friend and I booked a long weekend trip to Cadiz, which is a historic coastal city by the Atlantic Ocean that has kilometers of famous sandy beach. Ok, so I googled average temperatures in Spain for the weekend, and Cadiz boasted the warmest weather, so it wasn’t as much a desire to visit the city as a requirement to sunbathe on the beach. Anyway, the voyage was fraught with various hazards, and it was a surprise that I actually made it to my flight on time. I went to buy a ticket for the train to Madrid, for that is where the nearest major airport is located, and I was kindly told that there were no more tickets available. It turns out my friend bought the last one. I pled with the ticket agents, telling them I was going to miss my flight if I didn’t get on this train, but they were unsympathetic and rather annoyed with my presence. My friend (who will remain anonymous) told me to just get on the train with her, and since she had backpacked extensively through Europe over the summer, I trusted her judgment. I somehow found a seat on the train, and when the conductor came by I made up a story about dropping my ticket, so I just had to buy another one on the train (but since I never bought one in the first place, it was totally fair). We got to Madrid an hour late, for the trains are never on time, and we tried to take the Metro to the airport until I realized that we were definitely not going to Cadiz if we didn’t find a faster way of getting to Barajas. After frantically hailing a taxi and being overcharged by about ten euros, we made it to the check-in counter just in time. I had just received my boarding pass when I noticed that my friend was still at the counter, arguing with the airline staff. She was denied a boarding pass because she didn’t have a physical copy of her passport, even though we were traveling within Spain. It didn’t matter that she kept thrusting her photocopied passport photo at the agent; he continued saying only a full passport was valid. She went through four different staff members and a manager, but the result was the same. With no time to spare, I had to quickly decide my fate for the next three days: lose the cash and head back, defeated but accompanied, to Salamanca, or take a solitary adventure? Surprisingly (but maybe not, seeing as I am Jewish and don’t approve of wasting money), I took my chances and went to Cadiz by myself. Of course, I called my mom and informed her that I wasn’t staying in a hostel any longer, but nonetheless I ventured to a strange place without a companion.
Cadiz was pleasant; I took a cheesy, yet convenient hop-on hop-off bus tour, managed a peaceful stroll on the beach, viewed Spanish artwork, watched The Horse Whisperer in Spanish, and studied for midterms, which wasn’t nearly as pleasant. While it certainly would have been better having a friend on the trip, I have to admit that a weekend of solitude was quite luxurious. I do not have a great deal of time alone in Salamanca; my mornings are spent thinking of ways to kill the Colby kids, all my meals are with my host family, and the rest of my free time is spent doing Spanish grammar. Therefore, a weekend of me wasn’t the worst of possibilities. Besides, I was twice mistaken for a native Spaniard, which is the single greatest compliment one can receive. Of course, as soon as I open my mouth, the person knows I’m American and wants to tell me how much he or she despises our government, but those two seconds of silence are quite wonderful. Being mistaken for a Spaniard means that one has conquered the image of “tourist” and appears confident, fashionable, and slightly jaded, as if the historical circumstances of his or her city are mundane and banal. I’m hoping people usually assume I am a tourist because I lack the requirements of the third quality, not the first two.
Three more points worth mentioning, and then I actually have to stop procrastinating and write my grammar ensayo.
1. When I attend my daily 3-hour grammar session, I honestly feel like I’m in a class for mentally challenged individuals. It’s that bad. The Colby students constantly talk in English, refuse to listen when my teachers tell them to be quiet, and continually get answers wrong on homework because they were talking when the right answers were explained. The other day, I broke down and bitched at one of the girls who just wouldn’t shut up. The glorious sound of silence lasted five minutes.
2. I was sick earlier this week, so I went to one of the public doctors that offer free services for Cursos Internacionales students. Many people harp on the lack of universal public healthcare in the U.S., but I think we need to make certain that any future healthcare system is better than Spain’s version. I waited for about an hour to be seen, which probably isn’t bad at all for a free physician, and when I finally entered his office, my doctor did not hesitate to take a personal phone call. I really do know some Spanish, and my comprehension abilities are astute enough to determine that “Let’s get together for lunch” is not a medical term. I told him I probably had a fever, and he showed his concern by failing to take my temperature or even my blood pressure. He handed me a script for some pills, and only after asking him did he tell me what illness I had. I asked how long I would be sick, and he merely shrugged. The lesson: sure, people take advantage of the free public healthcare, but if they are truly concerned with their health, they go to a private physician. The plus side of the visit was the unbelievable cordiality of my fellow patients. Every time someone entered the waiting room, they would announce “Buenos dias” to the rest of us. It was unbelievably polite and even more unexpected. When I am sick, I just want to curl up in a corner, but these people were actually sociable. Oh Spain, there are some things I will never understand.
3. Many Spaniards, especially elderly senoras, are rigid about the conservation of energy and water, to the point where one of my friends’ senoras turns off the fuse to the kitchen when it is not in use. However, these same old women have no problem donning their full-length fur coats as soon as it gets below 40. Going to the grocery store? Better not forget my mink! A little wind in the air? Never fear, my fox-tail collar will keep me warm. Apparently the conservation of little furry animals is not as important to Spanish women.
13 days and counting!
Halley
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
From the Mixed-Up Files of Ms. Halley E. Theodore
Those of you who are really astute may have noticed that my blog postings have become somewhat more frequent, and I’ve done my best to add more visual imagery to my writings. I recently broke down and bought a Vodafone modem, which enables me to use the internet without leaving my house. Sadly, the poor signal does not work for Skype phone calls, but at least I can communicate via instant message if anyone is interested. I’m now down to three weeks left in Spain, and it’s hard to believe I went so long without proper internet. My rationalization for the modem cost stemmed from the semi-equivalent cost of drinking one or two Diet Cokes per day in order to use a bar’s free wifi. Really, it ends up costing about the same. With the additional time that is not spent walking to and from internet cafes, I try to explore my neighborhood. In Salamanca there are few differences in the blocks surrounding nice and shitty buildings; you will always find at least two small, smoky bars, a cell phone store, pharmacy, bank, and a bakery per block. My neighborhood also boasts a super bazaar and an upscale sex shop, which is oddly and conveniently located in front of a dentist’s office. I feel I must explain the phenomenon of the super bazaar. There are plenty of bazaars around Salamanca (similar to dollar stores with clothing, Christmas decorations, and random crap, and always manned by Chinese immigrants), but my thorough investigation proves that my local bazaar really is “super,” for it trumps the rest in its ridiculousness and size. One day while browsing the store, I happened to spot a rather peculiar item in the kids’ toy section. Mixed in among the knock-off Barbies and action figures were plastic masks with hearts for eyes and giant erect penises for the nose. Somehow I think this “toy” would be better suited for the sex shop across the street. What poor little kid was the victim of choosing the penis mask for Halloween? Unfortunately I had already purchased a little boy’s superhero outfit, made of polyester and highly flammable, or I might have had to go for the hilarious route of dick face.
Enough of my random musings. Let's get back to the expeditions. Emory took us to Andalucia, the southernmost region of Spain, known for flamenco, warm weather, and Muslim influence. When people describe stereotypical Spain (i.e. late, laborious dinners, loquacious people, dancing, bull fighting, and sol y playa) they are referring to the autonomous community of Andalucia. While other areas of the country differ tremendously, I can say that the rumors are true for southern Spain. We visited the three major cities of Andalucia: Cordoba, Granada, and Sevilla. Cordoba houses an impressive, ancient mosque (called la Mezquita de Cordoba), which has been preserved quite well considering Spain's distaste for non-Catholic lifestyle. The mezquita's inner columns are all slightly different styles, for the builders removed the artifacts from Roman ruins and transported them inside the mezquita. I plan on doing the same thing when I'm a homeowner. Who wouldn't want unique Roman artifacts serving as structural support? This post is significantly behind the posting of the Andalucia pictures, so some of the explanations may be a bit repetitive. That handy little note also serves as a reminder to look at my pictures! Don't worry, there aren't too many of me; I just want to show off Spain's beauty. The mezquita was wonderful, but I was outraged at the church's audacity by calling it "la Catedral de Cordoba" on all of the brochures. Um, does anyone else find a discrepancy between the terms mosque and cathedral? Just because Alfonso X had the horrific idea of placing a Catholic church in the middle of the mezquita, that does not make it acceptable to rename the heritage of the building. Even Wikipedia defines the mezquita as a Roman-Catholic church. Perhaps my hyper-sensitivity to past persecution is kicking in, but I find it outrageous, as well as blatantly false, to consider the mezquita as part of the Catholic church. Aside from the carvings of Jesus on the cross, which were added by Catholics, what elements of the mezquita could possibly be considered Christian? With a country that is 98 percent Catholic, the church can't afford to preserve the historical veracity of one building?
The rest of the trip was characterized by less frustration and more amazement. On Friday we toured La Alhambra, a Muslim palace, city, and fortress at the top of a hill in Granada. La Alhambra was one of my favorite places in Spain, and I will continuously nag anyone who plans on going to Spain until they promise to visit this site. La Alhambra is infamous for selling out of entry tickets weeks in advance, so I was extremely lucky that Emory had already purchased our group passes. Anyone who has travelled with me knows that I am a sucker for castles, so a hilltop citadel full of royal palaces fit my agenda perfectly. The attention to the gardens definitely rivaled those of Versailles, and the mosaic tiles and running fountains of the palace courtyards were impeccably maintained. Things kind of blended together after a few hours, for the palaces and rosebushes begin to blend together, but the image that sticks out in my mind is the pool of water in the interior courtyard of a palace, known as el Patio de los Arrayanes. If you googlear (yes, that is really the Spanish verb for google) La Alhambra, this photo will pop up again and again. I was thrilled to secure my legacy as a tourist in front of this famous site.
The remainder of Friday through the rest of the weekend was spent in Sevilla, where we saw a giant cathedral, an hour-long flamenco show, and a stunning park adorned with former Moorish summer palaces. The cathedral holds Columbus's tomb, which I made sure to desecrate a bit by reenacting the death of the Indians by plague. The flamenco performance was incredible; the femininity of both roles, male and female, was quite surprising. The male dancers wear heels, and I guarantee few people in the US would feel comfortable enough with their masculinity to recreate the gesturing, pained facial expressions, and clothing removal that occurred during the dances. My favorite part was the audience participation. The musicians continually call out commands and general encouragements like "vaya," "venga," or "anda" to keep the dancers motivated, and audience members are free to yell things as well. Everyone was polite enough to keep from yelling "para" (stop) or various profanities, which is probably another reason why flamenco was never adopted in the US.
The vivacious and outgoing nature of Sevilla was wonderful, but it proved to be a bit exhausting. People crowd the streets every night, swarming tapas bars and clothing stores alike, and the energy of the city was overwhelming. The art of botelloning is immensely popular in Andalucia, mainly due to the prevalence of public parks and mild nighttime temperatures. A botellon is the custom of a gathering of young people in a public space to drink large amounts of alcohol out of shared bottles. While not exactly legal, consumption of alcohol in open spaces is generally ignored, so the botellon occurs on any night of the week, as soon as it gets dark. I will have to remember that the US is not quite so lax on open container laws, or I may find myself botelloning with my friends in prison.
Ciao, amigos mios!
Enough of my random musings. Let's get back to the expeditions. Emory took us to Andalucia, the southernmost region of Spain, known for flamenco, warm weather, and Muslim influence. When people describe stereotypical Spain (i.e. late, laborious dinners, loquacious people, dancing, bull fighting, and sol y playa) they are referring to the autonomous community of Andalucia. While other areas of the country differ tremendously, I can say that the rumors are true for southern Spain. We visited the three major cities of Andalucia: Cordoba, Granada, and Sevilla. Cordoba houses an impressive, ancient mosque (called la Mezquita de Cordoba), which has been preserved quite well considering Spain's distaste for non-Catholic lifestyle. The mezquita's inner columns are all slightly different styles, for the builders removed the artifacts from Roman ruins and transported them inside the mezquita. I plan on doing the same thing when I'm a homeowner. Who wouldn't want unique Roman artifacts serving as structural support? This post is significantly behind the posting of the Andalucia pictures, so some of the explanations may be a bit repetitive. That handy little note also serves as a reminder to look at my pictures! Don't worry, there aren't too many of me; I just want to show off Spain's beauty. The mezquita was wonderful, but I was outraged at the church's audacity by calling it "la Catedral de Cordoba" on all of the brochures. Um, does anyone else find a discrepancy between the terms mosque and cathedral? Just because Alfonso X had the horrific idea of placing a Catholic church in the middle of the mezquita, that does not make it acceptable to rename the heritage of the building. Even Wikipedia defines the mezquita as a Roman-Catholic church. Perhaps my hyper-sensitivity to past persecution is kicking in, but I find it outrageous, as well as blatantly false, to consider the mezquita as part of the Catholic church. Aside from the carvings of Jesus on the cross, which were added by Catholics, what elements of the mezquita could possibly be considered Christian? With a country that is 98 percent Catholic, the church can't afford to preserve the historical veracity of one building?
The rest of the trip was characterized by less frustration and more amazement. On Friday we toured La Alhambra, a Muslim palace, city, and fortress at the top of a hill in Granada. La Alhambra was one of my favorite places in Spain, and I will continuously nag anyone who plans on going to Spain until they promise to visit this site. La Alhambra is infamous for selling out of entry tickets weeks in advance, so I was extremely lucky that Emory had already purchased our group passes. Anyone who has travelled with me knows that I am a sucker for castles, so a hilltop citadel full of royal palaces fit my agenda perfectly. The attention to the gardens definitely rivaled those of Versailles, and the mosaic tiles and running fountains of the palace courtyards were impeccably maintained. Things kind of blended together after a few hours, for the palaces and rosebushes begin to blend together, but the image that sticks out in my mind is the pool of water in the interior courtyard of a palace, known as el Patio de los Arrayanes. If you googlear (yes, that is really the Spanish verb for google) La Alhambra, this photo will pop up again and again. I was thrilled to secure my legacy as a tourist in front of this famous site.
The remainder of Friday through the rest of the weekend was spent in Sevilla, where we saw a giant cathedral, an hour-long flamenco show, and a stunning park adorned with former Moorish summer palaces. The cathedral holds Columbus's tomb, which I made sure to desecrate a bit by reenacting the death of the Indians by plague. The flamenco performance was incredible; the femininity of both roles, male and female, was quite surprising. The male dancers wear heels, and I guarantee few people in the US would feel comfortable enough with their masculinity to recreate the gesturing, pained facial expressions, and clothing removal that occurred during the dances. My favorite part was the audience participation. The musicians continually call out commands and general encouragements like "vaya," "venga," or "anda" to keep the dancers motivated, and audience members are free to yell things as well. Everyone was polite enough to keep from yelling "para" (stop) or various profanities, which is probably another reason why flamenco was never adopted in the US.
The vivacious and outgoing nature of Sevilla was wonderful, but it proved to be a bit exhausting. People crowd the streets every night, swarming tapas bars and clothing stores alike, and the energy of the city was overwhelming. The art of botelloning is immensely popular in Andalucia, mainly due to the prevalence of public parks and mild nighttime temperatures. A botellon is the custom of a gathering of young people in a public space to drink large amounts of alcohol out of shared bottles. While not exactly legal, consumption of alcohol in open spaces is generally ignored, so the botellon occurs on any night of the week, as soon as it gets dark. I will have to remember that the US is not quite so lax on open container laws, or I may find myself botelloning with my friends in prison.
Ciao, amigos mios!
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Toledo, San Sebastian, Bilbao, Oh My!
As you can tell by the prominently displayed headline of the post, I've been doing a lot of traveling recently. This is the essence of being abroad, and I feel that I am really comprehending the eccentricities of Spain´s autonomous communities by journeying around the country. I've been boasting that by the end of the semester, I will have visited almost every site in Rick Steves's Spain guide. I consider this to be quite an accomplishment.
My trip to Toledo occurred rather spontaneously, as most collegiate plans do. Toledo was the home of El Greco, the beloved Spanish artist who wasn't actually Spanish. We made sure to see the Greco museum and all other major Greco sites in the two days we had. Of course, the one painting I really wanted to see was the Vista de Toledo, but the work is not actually in Toledo. Instead, I had the Vista de Tourbuses. I don't possess an overwhelming desire to return to Toledo; in part because the city is very touristy. I have a wonderful picture that depicts the traditional Vista de Toledo as El Greco would have recreated, except for the line of tourbuses parked next to the river. We also went to a famous, authentic sword shop, where my friend bought a legitimate Spanish sword made by man missing two fingers. He was more than happy to give us an exclusive tour of his workshop and showed us some antique weapons his grandfather constructed. The shop has been in his family for 110 years, but it will probably die out with him because his son does not want to continue the trade. If my father was missing the better part of two fingers, I wouldn't want to take up that job, either. On our final day we visited the Sephardic museum, which is housed in one of the two remaining synagogues in Toledo. It was interesting to see the integration of Arabic design elements, such as wall carvings and archways with columns, with the traditional scripture in Hebrew on the walls. I appreciate Toledo for its efforts to keep Sephardic culture alive in Spain. In complete juxtaposition, it also has the third-largest cathedral in Europe. In retrospect, Toledo was great, but my other trips have been better (and warmer, so perhaps I'm a little biased).
A few weekends later, six of us ventured by night train to San Sebastian. Though it has the same setup as the Portugal train, this journey was not nearly as uncomfortable as my last overnight train ride. I wasn't sexually harassed, drunkenly heckled, or disturbed from sleeping, though the relative calm was probably due to the fact that there was a guy with us (thanks, Michael). We arrived in San Sebastian at six in the morning with no map and no available lodging until three pm. Being the adventurous soul that I am, I agreed to try and sleep on the beach. Bad idea. It was absolutely freezing, the sand was damp, and people kept staring at us like we were homeless. An hour later we gave up and moved to a cafeteria, where I continually beat down my drowsiness with cafe con leche. Yes, it's shocking, but I actually drink coffee now. Of course, it is a quarter coffee and the rest milk and sugar, but I call it coffee nonetheless. Since I'm living in Europe, I needed to adopt some sort of addiction to fit in with the masses. Despite my vagabond morning, I came to love San Sebastian. We had perfect timing on our visit, since ETA had just blown up a politician's car in Bilbao earlier in the week, so we all felt really safe. There was a big Basque pride meeting in the streets, and supporters posted multitudes of Basque flags and giant banners. I took some pictures, but because the Basque language has absolutely nothing in common with Spanish, or any other romance language, for that matter, I still have no idea what the people were actually protesting or celebrating. Apparently there were also huge riots, dumpster fires, and extensive police activity during our weekend visit, but we luckily missed out on all that. I came back to Salamanca and saw the riot clips on the news, and my senora asked me if we got caught in any street violence. Um, I wasn't even aware that there was any violence, so I guess the answer would be no. The other thing about the city that I find hysterical is the prevalence of THC shops, where you can legally buy your own marijuana plant or seeds. In Spain it is now legal to cultivate a maximum of two marijuana plants for private use, and young and old alike visit these shops to obtain their fair share of the goods. As we entered, three women my mom's age were leaving the store, and I couldn't help but laugh. It's like the time I thought the bag of catnip was my parents' secret stash of pot, except these middle-aged ladies have no need for secrecy. No, I didn't buy anything, but I treasured the experience.
On Sunday I dragged a friend along to Bilbao, where Frank Gehry's Guggenheim glimmers in the sunlight from a mile away. The museum is largely responsible for restimulating Bilbao's economy, for before the presence of the museum, it mainly served as an industrial city. Having studied the building and some of its contents in freshman year Art History, I've been aching to see the silver boat ever since. Okay, so it's not really a boat, but it certainly looks like one in the aerial photographs. The actual exhibits within the museum were by no means overwhelming, but it seems awfully hard to match the offerings of Spain's other art museums, such as the Prado, the Picasso museum, etc. However, as you can probably tell by my pictures, I fell in love with the Puppy. Jeff Koons's masterpiece is a forty-foot tall topiary gem that closely resembles a West Highland White Terrier, probably the cutest type of dog to grace our planet (except for Maggie, of course). I saw this flowering, towering doggie before even entering the museum, and it was incredibly hard to leave the puppy. Mom, do you think the Pebblecreek neighbors would mind if we construct a mini (let's say twenty-foot) dog in our front yard? In fact, let's memorialize all three of the pets.
I hope these cultural trips are entertaining, because I have about three more to go. I hope all is well in everyone's various places of residence, and it's really exciting to see that people are actually reading what I have to say. Especially when the person lives in Ghana.
Besos,
Halley
My trip to Toledo occurred rather spontaneously, as most collegiate plans do. Toledo was the home of El Greco, the beloved Spanish artist who wasn't actually Spanish. We made sure to see the Greco museum and all other major Greco sites in the two days we had. Of course, the one painting I really wanted to see was the Vista de Toledo, but the work is not actually in Toledo. Instead, I had the Vista de Tourbuses. I don't possess an overwhelming desire to return to Toledo; in part because the city is very touristy. I have a wonderful picture that depicts the traditional Vista de Toledo as El Greco would have recreated, except for the line of tourbuses parked next to the river. We also went to a famous, authentic sword shop, where my friend bought a legitimate Spanish sword made by man missing two fingers. He was more than happy to give us an exclusive tour of his workshop and showed us some antique weapons his grandfather constructed. The shop has been in his family for 110 years, but it will probably die out with him because his son does not want to continue the trade. If my father was missing the better part of two fingers, I wouldn't want to take up that job, either. On our final day we visited the Sephardic museum, which is housed in one of the two remaining synagogues in Toledo. It was interesting to see the integration of Arabic design elements, such as wall carvings and archways with columns, with the traditional scripture in Hebrew on the walls. I appreciate Toledo for its efforts to keep Sephardic culture alive in Spain. In complete juxtaposition, it also has the third-largest cathedral in Europe. In retrospect, Toledo was great, but my other trips have been better (and warmer, so perhaps I'm a little biased).
A few weekends later, six of us ventured by night train to San Sebastian. Though it has the same setup as the Portugal train, this journey was not nearly as uncomfortable as my last overnight train ride. I wasn't sexually harassed, drunkenly heckled, or disturbed from sleeping, though the relative calm was probably due to the fact that there was a guy with us (thanks, Michael). We arrived in San Sebastian at six in the morning with no map and no available lodging until three pm. Being the adventurous soul that I am, I agreed to try and sleep on the beach. Bad idea. It was absolutely freezing, the sand was damp, and people kept staring at us like we were homeless. An hour later we gave up and moved to a cafeteria, where I continually beat down my drowsiness with cafe con leche. Yes, it's shocking, but I actually drink coffee now. Of course, it is a quarter coffee and the rest milk and sugar, but I call it coffee nonetheless. Since I'm living in Europe, I needed to adopt some sort of addiction to fit in with the masses. Despite my vagabond morning, I came to love San Sebastian. We had perfect timing on our visit, since ETA had just blown up a politician's car in Bilbao earlier in the week, so we all felt really safe. There was a big Basque pride meeting in the streets, and supporters posted multitudes of Basque flags and giant banners. I took some pictures, but because the Basque language has absolutely nothing in common with Spanish, or any other romance language, for that matter, I still have no idea what the people were actually protesting or celebrating. Apparently there were also huge riots, dumpster fires, and extensive police activity during our weekend visit, but we luckily missed out on all that. I came back to Salamanca and saw the riot clips on the news, and my senora asked me if we got caught in any street violence. Um, I wasn't even aware that there was any violence, so I guess the answer would be no. The other thing about the city that I find hysterical is the prevalence of THC shops, where you can legally buy your own marijuana plant or seeds. In Spain it is now legal to cultivate a maximum of two marijuana plants for private use, and young and old alike visit these shops to obtain their fair share of the goods. As we entered, three women my mom's age were leaving the store, and I couldn't help but laugh. It's like the time I thought the bag of catnip was my parents' secret stash of pot, except these middle-aged ladies have no need for secrecy. No, I didn't buy anything, but I treasured the experience.
On Sunday I dragged a friend along to Bilbao, where Frank Gehry's Guggenheim glimmers in the sunlight from a mile away. The museum is largely responsible for restimulating Bilbao's economy, for before the presence of the museum, it mainly served as an industrial city. Having studied the building and some of its contents in freshman year Art History, I've been aching to see the silver boat ever since. Okay, so it's not really a boat, but it certainly looks like one in the aerial photographs. The actual exhibits within the museum were by no means overwhelming, but it seems awfully hard to match the offerings of Spain's other art museums, such as the Prado, the Picasso museum, etc. However, as you can probably tell by my pictures, I fell in love with the Puppy. Jeff Koons's masterpiece is a forty-foot tall topiary gem that closely resembles a West Highland White Terrier, probably the cutest type of dog to grace our planet (except for Maggie, of course). I saw this flowering, towering doggie before even entering the museum, and it was incredibly hard to leave the puppy. Mom, do you think the Pebblecreek neighbors would mind if we construct a mini (let's say twenty-foot) dog in our front yard? In fact, let's memorialize all three of the pets.
I hope these cultural trips are entertaining, because I have about three more to go. I hope all is well in everyone's various places of residence, and it's really exciting to see that people are actually reading what I have to say. Especially when the person lives in Ghana.
Besos,
Halley
Monday, November 5, 2007
Surprise!
I just updated my Picasa web album, and I hope to continue the pattern throughout the week. Happy viewing!
This is why they call me Sally (as in When Harry Met Sally)
Now that I have about six weeks remaining in Spain, I’ve become quite prone to reminiscing about the pros and cons of living here. A definite con is the food, but that is to be expected considering a) it’s 90 percent pork, and b) it’s me we’re talking about. I readily discern the danger behind any cuisine that uses the phrase “typical of Salamanca.” These famous last words almost always mean the dish combines unidentifiable pieces of pork, sausage, rice, egg, and broth in a big pot, much like a gigantic, unappetizing pork paella. Maybe that is why I haven’t seen restaurants offer pork paella on the menu. The other dish I simply can’t fathom is the lunch of boiled potatoes. I am served the boiled potato plate about once a week, and I follow up lunch with a trip to the local Pans and Company to satisfy my grumbling belly. My señora gives herself a sort of shrimp soup on these days, and knowing that I do not eat seafood, she kindly makes me an alternative. However, this plate is solely comprised of boiled potatoes with an egg-yolk covering. My friends in other homestays receive the same dish, but always as a starter plate to the main meal. I feel like I’m in Ireland. Whenever someone complains about their meal, it is always measured on a scale in comparison to the potatoes. This dish is the common joke among the Emory group. Hey, at least I have not yet been served pig ears or bull testicles (as far as I know). The other humorous aspect concerning food is the amount of pride delivered with a dish. Up until this point, my knowledge of foreign cooking solely consisted of Amy Tan’s anecdotes of Chinese mothers insulting their own food, only to have their meals praised by the rest of the family. Spain offers a completely different approach to cooking. Chefs love to extol their work; everything is described as “muy rico,” and if you do not eat enough food, you are scolded for your inferior appetite and bad taste in cuisine. The guilt of being reprimanded is enough to keep one eating.
Though the food is not my cup of tea, I love Spaniards’ use of pet names for each other. When I return to Emory, I’m really going to miss being called such affectionate diminutives as “mi vida,” “cariño,” or “hija.” My grammar teacher, Charo, which is in itself a diminutive for Rosario, constantly refers to us with these three names. The embarrassment of incorrectly answering a question is severely diminished when she begins her explanation with “Halley, mi vida.” This sort of treatment makes me forget that I’m in college. Somehow I doubt that Dr. Bliwise, my infamous methods professor, is going to be quite as forgiving if I offer the wrong statistical analysis for my experiment.
After grammar, Charo leaves and is replaced by Juan Carlos, who represents the antithesis of this doting, sensitive individual. I absolutely love my hour of conversation with Juan Carlos, but his teaching style involves mild ridicule and heavy correction in speaking and writing. I never knew my Spanish was so chock-full of errors until I encountered my professor’s dreaded red pen. I describe my conversation professor to others as “the one with the circa 1989 Danny Tanner.” I am, of course, referring to his mullet. There are so many different styles in Spain, I’ve developed code names to keep track. The Danny Tanner is immediately recognizable to all Full House fans; wavy, carefree, and shoulder-length, it varies significantly from the Uncle Jesse, which requires serious sculpting gel and a perm. There are also the popular mullhawk, mullock, and highlighted mullet styles. The Spanish mullet does not discriminate, for both sexes proudly boast the hairstyle.
I know I’m dreadfully behind on my posting, for I now have four separate excursions which need chronicling. I have midterms this week, so I can’t promise any major progress, but I hope to churn another entry out in the next couple of days. Whoever said studying abroad was easy was sadly mistaken. I certainly have less homework, but I have much more class to compensate for any free time. At least I will be ready to work when I get back to Emory. I hope all is well in the States and beyond, especially for that special someone who is dealing with Godzilla-sized cockroaches and occasional malaria outbreaks.
Un abrazo,
Halley
Though the food is not my cup of tea, I love Spaniards’ use of pet names for each other. When I return to Emory, I’m really going to miss being called such affectionate diminutives as “mi vida,” “cariño,” or “hija.” My grammar teacher, Charo, which is in itself a diminutive for Rosario, constantly refers to us with these three names. The embarrassment of incorrectly answering a question is severely diminished when she begins her explanation with “Halley, mi vida.” This sort of treatment makes me forget that I’m in college. Somehow I doubt that Dr. Bliwise, my infamous methods professor, is going to be quite as forgiving if I offer the wrong statistical analysis for my experiment.
After grammar, Charo leaves and is replaced by Juan Carlos, who represents the antithesis of this doting, sensitive individual. I absolutely love my hour of conversation with Juan Carlos, but his teaching style involves mild ridicule and heavy correction in speaking and writing. I never knew my Spanish was so chock-full of errors until I encountered my professor’s dreaded red pen. I describe my conversation professor to others as “the one with the circa 1989 Danny Tanner.” I am, of course, referring to his mullet. There are so many different styles in Spain, I’ve developed code names to keep track. The Danny Tanner is immediately recognizable to all Full House fans; wavy, carefree, and shoulder-length, it varies significantly from the Uncle Jesse, which requires serious sculpting gel and a perm. There are also the popular mullhawk, mullock, and highlighted mullet styles. The Spanish mullet does not discriminate, for both sexes proudly boast the hairstyle.
I know I’m dreadfully behind on my posting, for I now have four separate excursions which need chronicling. I have midterms this week, so I can’t promise any major progress, but I hope to churn another entry out in the next couple of days. Whoever said studying abroad was easy was sadly mistaken. I certainly have less homework, but I have much more class to compensate for any free time. At least I will be ready to work when I get back to Emory. I hope all is well in the States and beyond, especially for that special someone who is dealing with Godzilla-sized cockroaches and occasional malaria outbreaks.
Un abrazo,
Halley
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
¿Dónde está el wifi?
I’ve now visited three places with false advertising. All I want is some damn wifi (pronounced wee-fee), and no one seems to have it, unless I venture the 25 minute walk to the Plaza Mayor. It goes like this: I walk into the establishment, look around, but I see not a soul with a computer. I then timidly approach the owner and ask about the internet. I usually have to repeat the question several times, hopefully not due to my poor pronunciation but because the query is so strange. After hand gestures of miming the wonderful abilities of wifi (don’t ask what these supposed gestures are, I’ve just adopted the habits of Spaniards), I am informed that the wifi does not exist. In a last, desperate effort, I point to the sign outside proclaiming the virtues of the 21st century, and I am met with a sad smile and a shrug. Why spend money on the fluorescent sign advertising the absent product? It may seem like a waste of money, but it draws potential customers like myself; poor, unfortunate souls who lack internet of their own. Luring me in, I buy a Coca-Cola Light to sip while I leisurely browse the internet, and only after my purchase do I discover I’ve been robbed of 1.50 euros.
In other, more pertinent news relating to my blog, I have three trips to write about. At this late stage they will be extremely abbreviated versions, for my memory of each one is rapidly deteriorating in a constant ratio with the lack of sleep I get nightly. I have class five days a week from 9:00-2:15 with an hour break in between, and Tuesdays and Thursdays I have class again from 4:45-5:45 and again from 7:30-9:00. Twice a week, I essentially have twelve-hour days, with a half-hour walk to warm me up on each end. It’s a little too much like high school for me, but my Spanish is vastly improving with four or five hours a day of practice. I quickly learned that going out is no longer an option, for, not surprisingly, sleeping two hours and arriving to class hung over is not good for learning new colloquial expressions. Shocking, but true. Of course, that doesn’t stop the Colby freshmen from coming to class reeking of last night’s drunken mistakes, and they all make sure to bitch about how sick they feel for the entire three hours. Oh, the Colby freshmen. They are a group of kids, and I use the term kids deliberately, who were wait-listed at Colby and were given the option of going to Colby starting second semester and attending the school’s Salamanca program in the meantime. They are the bane of my existence. I had enough hatred of my fellow freshmen the first time around, and I don’t feel the need to repeat it. It's not that I care if people go out at night, but I just don't need to hear how hungover everyone is the next day. Um, isn't that the definition of college? Besides, it's not like anyone is forcing them to go out and take six shots, so take your sunglasses off, drink some coffee, and get the fuck over yourself. The Colby kids are incredibly immature; they talk constantly during class about their “ballin” nights, and I have to strongly resist the urge to punch them in the face. I’m guessing it will be another two days before I calmly tell them to shut the fuck up, because I actually want to learn Spanish, and their banal English conversations are getting in the way. The other students in my class are American, British, and Japanese. One of the Japanese students sits next to me, and Japanese-tinged Spanish is by far the most interesting version I’ve heard. It’s quite difficult for me to understand him sometimes, but I just admire his ability to learn a language in a completely different alphabet that is not spoken often in his country.
On to my trips. We took an Emory trip to Galicia, the northern region of Spain that borders Portugal, where we visited Santiago de Compostela and the giant cathedral that serves as the final stop on the pilgrimage to Santiago. Known here as El Camino de Santiago, or simply El Camino, this pilgrimage is for religious pilgrims and adventurous people alike. There are many routes, but many people start in France and walk through northern Spain until they reach the cathedral, which houses the remains of St. James. The walk in total is about 800 kilometers, but to be considered a legitimate pilgrim you need to do about 100. We saw many pilgrims rejoicing the end of their journey in the plaza outside of the church. I would rejoice too if I just finished walking across a country. There is a mass that occurs daily at noon to honor the newly-arrived pilgrims. We toured the church, with an altar fully decked out in golden Baroque splendor, and then some of us stayed for the mass. Being a Jew, it was a bit weird, but I’m glad I embraced the experience. I should mention that this took place on Yom Kippur. Luckily I don’t have a lot of faith, or I think I might have gotten in trouble for several things that day. I’m pretty sure going to a Catholic church and then staying for the religious mass is not allowed on the holiest day of the Jewish calendar. Well, since I couldn’t go to a synagogue, I guess it’s good that I went somewhere. Hey, Jesus was Jewish. Ok, so I felt incredibly guilty, but it was a foreign country and I had to experience the local tradition. I didn’t take communion or anything.
On Sunday we visited La Coruña, where a massive lighthouse stands. Known as la Torre de Hercules, this giant structure has absolutely breathtaking views of the rocky cliffs and narrow beaches of the Atlantic Ocean. Apparently we were extremely fortuitous, for the region of Galicia is infamous for its constant rains. However, that weekend the rest of Spain got pelted with water while we remained content and dry. I hope to post more pictures soon, as my paltry description does not do the scenery justice. I really enjoy the Emory expeditions because they take me places I normally would not visit. I would never go out of my way to visit Galicia, let alone Santiago de Compostela, but I always end up having a great time while enhancing my knowledge about the different autonomous communities of Spain. Each autonomous region truly is significant from the rest, and though I will not be able to see all seventeen, I am confident that I will be able to describe the differences between the major regions of Spain. I guess learning can be fun. The next post will highlight my journeys to Toledo and San Sebastián, respectively, but before I depart I must proclaim my love for Doner Kebabs (or kebaps as they are called here). These scrumptious, non-Spanish delights are wraps or pita sandwiches with lettuce, tomato, onion, cucumber sauce, and chicken carved off of a rotating, vertical barbeque using an electric knife. Given my distaste for unfamiliar cuisine, it is rather astonishing that I love the Doner kebabs. However, if you witness my gleeful dance when I find a Doner kebab site, you will be convinced of my adoration. I don’t know if the Doner kebab franchise exists in the states, but I will truly miss its presence when I leave Spain.
Again, I apologize for my lack of updates, but I hope to resume semi-frequent posting now that my daily routine has been established.
Besos,
Halley
In other, more pertinent news relating to my blog, I have three trips to write about. At this late stage they will be extremely abbreviated versions, for my memory of each one is rapidly deteriorating in a constant ratio with the lack of sleep I get nightly. I have class five days a week from 9:00-2:15 with an hour break in between, and Tuesdays and Thursdays I have class again from 4:45-5:45 and again from 7:30-9:00. Twice a week, I essentially have twelve-hour days, with a half-hour walk to warm me up on each end. It’s a little too much like high school for me, but my Spanish is vastly improving with four or five hours a day of practice. I quickly learned that going out is no longer an option, for, not surprisingly, sleeping two hours and arriving to class hung over is not good for learning new colloquial expressions. Shocking, but true. Of course, that doesn’t stop the Colby freshmen from coming to class reeking of last night’s drunken mistakes, and they all make sure to bitch about how sick they feel for the entire three hours. Oh, the Colby freshmen. They are a group of kids, and I use the term kids deliberately, who were wait-listed at Colby and were given the option of going to Colby starting second semester and attending the school’s Salamanca program in the meantime. They are the bane of my existence. I had enough hatred of my fellow freshmen the first time around, and I don’t feel the need to repeat it. It's not that I care if people go out at night, but I just don't need to hear how hungover everyone is the next day. Um, isn't that the definition of college? Besides, it's not like anyone is forcing them to go out and take six shots, so take your sunglasses off, drink some coffee, and get the fuck over yourself. The Colby kids are incredibly immature; they talk constantly during class about their “ballin” nights, and I have to strongly resist the urge to punch them in the face. I’m guessing it will be another two days before I calmly tell them to shut the fuck up, because I actually want to learn Spanish, and their banal English conversations are getting in the way. The other students in my class are American, British, and Japanese. One of the Japanese students sits next to me, and Japanese-tinged Spanish is by far the most interesting version I’ve heard. It’s quite difficult for me to understand him sometimes, but I just admire his ability to learn a language in a completely different alphabet that is not spoken often in his country.
On to my trips. We took an Emory trip to Galicia, the northern region of Spain that borders Portugal, where we visited Santiago de Compostela and the giant cathedral that serves as the final stop on the pilgrimage to Santiago. Known here as El Camino de Santiago, or simply El Camino, this pilgrimage is for religious pilgrims and adventurous people alike. There are many routes, but many people start in France and walk through northern Spain until they reach the cathedral, which houses the remains of St. James. The walk in total is about 800 kilometers, but to be considered a legitimate pilgrim you need to do about 100. We saw many pilgrims rejoicing the end of their journey in the plaza outside of the church. I would rejoice too if I just finished walking across a country. There is a mass that occurs daily at noon to honor the newly-arrived pilgrims. We toured the church, with an altar fully decked out in golden Baroque splendor, and then some of us stayed for the mass. Being a Jew, it was a bit weird, but I’m glad I embraced the experience. I should mention that this took place on Yom Kippur. Luckily I don’t have a lot of faith, or I think I might have gotten in trouble for several things that day. I’m pretty sure going to a Catholic church and then staying for the religious mass is not allowed on the holiest day of the Jewish calendar. Well, since I couldn’t go to a synagogue, I guess it’s good that I went somewhere. Hey, Jesus was Jewish. Ok, so I felt incredibly guilty, but it was a foreign country and I had to experience the local tradition. I didn’t take communion or anything.
On Sunday we visited La Coruña, where a massive lighthouse stands. Known as la Torre de Hercules, this giant structure has absolutely breathtaking views of the rocky cliffs and narrow beaches of the Atlantic Ocean. Apparently we were extremely fortuitous, for the region of Galicia is infamous for its constant rains. However, that weekend the rest of Spain got pelted with water while we remained content and dry. I hope to post more pictures soon, as my paltry description does not do the scenery justice. I really enjoy the Emory expeditions because they take me places I normally would not visit. I would never go out of my way to visit Galicia, let alone Santiago de Compostela, but I always end up having a great time while enhancing my knowledge about the different autonomous communities of Spain. Each autonomous region truly is significant from the rest, and though I will not be able to see all seventeen, I am confident that I will be able to describe the differences between the major regions of Spain. I guess learning can be fun. The next post will highlight my journeys to Toledo and San Sebastián, respectively, but before I depart I must proclaim my love for Doner Kebabs (or kebaps as they are called here). These scrumptious, non-Spanish delights are wraps or pita sandwiches with lettuce, tomato, onion, cucumber sauce, and chicken carved off of a rotating, vertical barbeque using an electric knife. Given my distaste for unfamiliar cuisine, it is rather astonishing that I love the Doner kebabs. However, if you witness my gleeful dance when I find a Doner kebab site, you will be convinced of my adoration. I don’t know if the Doner kebab franchise exists in the states, but I will truly miss its presence when I leave Spain.
Again, I apologize for my lack of updates, but I hope to resume semi-frequent posting now that my daily routine has been established.
Besos,
Halley
Monday, October 1, 2007
All you player haters out there
I have 18 minutes of battery left on my computer, and I have to make the half-hour trek home for dinner. I'm sorry for the lack of updates, but I just moved, and sadly wifi is not included in the new apartment. I traded stolen wifi for a kitty. Which is better? If the cat decides to like me, instead of suspiciously watching me from the hall, then the choice is obvious. Expect a new post soon (like Wednesday), and I'll provide lots of cultural anecdotes and tales of adventure. Ok, maybe no adventure, but laughter is guaranteed. I've got to go, for my computer is yelling at me. Hasta luego!
Monday, September 24, 2007
Mom, I've been somewhere you haven't.
Shame on me for not posting for so long. Now you'll just have to bear with a longer post. First off, I'm moving on Sunday to a homestay...with a KITTY!!!!! Can you tell that I'm excited? I finally decided to move after equating my situation to living with Papa and Henriette. Constant bickering, paranoia (though no trash-delving), and terrible music are partly responsible for this comparison. For those of you who aren't familiar with the tales of George and Co., just ask me for some highlights. I'm switching to an apartment that is a little farther away but has other exchange students, a 17-year-old son, and a working mother. The son brings with him the possibility of a wifi connection in the house, and the other students will take some of the pressure off mealtime conversations. Today my host mother told me it pains her that I will be leaving. Nothing like a little guilt to make the move that much easier! It's nice to know that I kept my disappointment to myself, for she seemed genuinely surprised when I told her I was moving. Like any good Jew, I know how to keep my suffering bottled up inside. I just use other outlets, like online blogging, to kvetch. Aside from food, I have not accumulated too many items, so moving out shouldn't be too hard, but I'm still not looking forward to the lugging of the items to the tiny elevator that may or may not make it safely down the shaft.
My friends and I celebrated one of our last three-day weekends by hopping a train to Portugal. The train left the Salamanca station at 4:50 in the morning, and my plan to stay out all night failed. I ended up crashing at about 3:30, only to be rudely awakened by my alarm at 4. It's not an experience I really want to repeat. We made it on the train, and we were immediately accosted by drunk Spaniards who refused to leave our compartment. While some of my friends find it funny when intoxicated guys demand a kiss on both cheeks, I find it degrading, sexist, and insulting. When they came around to me, I nicely told them to get the fuck out of our compartment, but in their drunken stupor, they must have just seen my English yelling as playing hard to get. After shoving them out the door and holding it closed, we tried to sleep. Needless to say, six girls in one compartment does not make for comfortable travel. As I was finally dozing off, the conductor slammed the door open, turned on the light, and started talking to us in Portuguese. It took about a minute before we realized he wanted our passports, but the manner in which he entered made it seem like a drug bust. Regardless of what people say, Portuguese does not sound anything like Spanish, especially at six in the morning. The rest of the train ride was filled with random men coming into our compartment and speaking to us in every language but Spanish, little boys banging on the glass because it was funny to wake us up, and me clutching my purse through the entire ride. I'm glad I became acquainted with the Spain-Portugal train system, and I can assure you I will never do it again.
We arrived in Lisboa around noon, and we headed for the hostel. Yes, that's right, I stayed in a hostel. While my next step won't be backpacking around Europe for the next six months, it was a very enjoyable experience. Named Smile, the hostel literally resembled an Ikea showroom, for everything from the bedding to the kitchen cabinets came from the store. As I was boasting about my ability to "rough it," I learned that the cleanliness and cheerfulness of the establishment was due to the fact that the hostel had been open for two weeks. Apparently my perception of hostels is now completely skewed, and any subsequent hostel in which I reside will arouse feelings of nostalgia for Smile and bitterness toward my current housing.
Lisboa is incredibly old and busy. While beautiful, most of the neighborhoods we saw were in dire need of repair. I do not have a great desire to visit Lisboa again, but our two side expeditions were amazing. On Saturday we visited Sintra, a town with famous castles, towering hills, and expensive meals. Being poor college students, we had to narrow our tour of Sintra down to two castles, but it was still magnificent. We first viewed a palace with grounds that rival the eccentricity of Versailles. There was a botanical garden, cave, chapel, and labyrinth. In place of a treehouse, the garden featured several stone mini-castles with Rapunzel-esque towers. We could have spent the entire day exploring the secret tunnels and dark caverns, but we pressed on to the Moorish castle. This expedition involved a windy bus ride to the top of a massive hill. We hiked from the ticket booth up to the top of the remains of the stone wall of the castle. I was grossly underdressed in my flip-flops, and there were definitely some treacherous moments on the stairs. Safely at the top, however, my exhaustion became awe. We could see all of Sintra, as well as the surrounding mountains and castles, from our perch. It was absolutely breathtaking; I only wish we had time to visit some of the other sprawling hilltop manors.
Saturday night we went out to explore Barrio Alto, which is Lisboa's most famous nightlife district. The scene is the exact opposite of what you would see in America. The bars are rather small and have limited seating, so everyone gets their beers and heads out into the streets to drink. I guess there aren't laws against open containers of alcohol in Portugal. People openly smoke joints on the street, and we witnessed multiple fights during our visit. It's kind of pathetic; we were talking to a group of travelers from France and Switzerland, all of us having a jovial time, when suddenly one Frenchman made a comment to the other Frenchman, and the two started throwing punches. Of course the remark was in French, so I have no idea what was so offensive that caused 2 euro beers to be thrown, but nonetheless a fight occurred. I'm glad most of my going-out clothes are from H&M, for I seem to constantly be caught in the midst of the beer-throwing.
On Sunday we repeated the seven-hour journey home, but not before we hit the beach at Cascais. Another beautiful Portugal town, we walked right off the train and onto the public beach. Though the water was probably colder than Lake Tahoe in summer, the weather was perfect. The only tan lines I have are from my flip-flops, so I was overjoyed to find remnants of my bathing suit line on my body. Hooray for sun damage!
This trip actually took place two weekends ago, so stay tuned for my journey to Galicia. I didn't want to lose any fans by making this post insanely long. I hope to update the blog tomorrow, along with a link to pictures. Despite my sexy phlegm, I'm off to Cafe Erasmus for Intercambio, where I'll hopefully meet boys who want to practice their English skills. Ciao!
My friends and I celebrated one of our last three-day weekends by hopping a train to Portugal. The train left the Salamanca station at 4:50 in the morning, and my plan to stay out all night failed. I ended up crashing at about 3:30, only to be rudely awakened by my alarm at 4. It's not an experience I really want to repeat. We made it on the train, and we were immediately accosted by drunk Spaniards who refused to leave our compartment. While some of my friends find it funny when intoxicated guys demand a kiss on both cheeks, I find it degrading, sexist, and insulting. When they came around to me, I nicely told them to get the fuck out of our compartment, but in their drunken stupor, they must have just seen my English yelling as playing hard to get. After shoving them out the door and holding it closed, we tried to sleep. Needless to say, six girls in one compartment does not make for comfortable travel. As I was finally dozing off, the conductor slammed the door open, turned on the light, and started talking to us in Portuguese. It took about a minute before we realized he wanted our passports, but the manner in which he entered made it seem like a drug bust. Regardless of what people say, Portuguese does not sound anything like Spanish, especially at six in the morning. The rest of the train ride was filled with random men coming into our compartment and speaking to us in every language but Spanish, little boys banging on the glass because it was funny to wake us up, and me clutching my purse through the entire ride. I'm glad I became acquainted with the Spain-Portugal train system, and I can assure you I will never do it again.
We arrived in Lisboa around noon, and we headed for the hostel. Yes, that's right, I stayed in a hostel. While my next step won't be backpacking around Europe for the next six months, it was a very enjoyable experience. Named Smile, the hostel literally resembled an Ikea showroom, for everything from the bedding to the kitchen cabinets came from the store. As I was boasting about my ability to "rough it," I learned that the cleanliness and cheerfulness of the establishment was due to the fact that the hostel had been open for two weeks. Apparently my perception of hostels is now completely skewed, and any subsequent hostel in which I reside will arouse feelings of nostalgia for Smile and bitterness toward my current housing.
Lisboa is incredibly old and busy. While beautiful, most of the neighborhoods we saw were in dire need of repair. I do not have a great desire to visit Lisboa again, but our two side expeditions were amazing. On Saturday we visited Sintra, a town with famous castles, towering hills, and expensive meals. Being poor college students, we had to narrow our tour of Sintra down to two castles, but it was still magnificent. We first viewed a palace with grounds that rival the eccentricity of Versailles. There was a botanical garden, cave, chapel, and labyrinth. In place of a treehouse, the garden featured several stone mini-castles with Rapunzel-esque towers. We could have spent the entire day exploring the secret tunnels and dark caverns, but we pressed on to the Moorish castle. This expedition involved a windy bus ride to the top of a massive hill. We hiked from the ticket booth up to the top of the remains of the stone wall of the castle. I was grossly underdressed in my flip-flops, and there were definitely some treacherous moments on the stairs. Safely at the top, however, my exhaustion became awe. We could see all of Sintra, as well as the surrounding mountains and castles, from our perch. It was absolutely breathtaking; I only wish we had time to visit some of the other sprawling hilltop manors.
Saturday night we went out to explore Barrio Alto, which is Lisboa's most famous nightlife district. The scene is the exact opposite of what you would see in America. The bars are rather small and have limited seating, so everyone gets their beers and heads out into the streets to drink. I guess there aren't laws against open containers of alcohol in Portugal. People openly smoke joints on the street, and we witnessed multiple fights during our visit. It's kind of pathetic; we were talking to a group of travelers from France and Switzerland, all of us having a jovial time, when suddenly one Frenchman made a comment to the other Frenchman, and the two started throwing punches. Of course the remark was in French, so I have no idea what was so offensive that caused 2 euro beers to be thrown, but nonetheless a fight occurred. I'm glad most of my going-out clothes are from H&M, for I seem to constantly be caught in the midst of the beer-throwing.
On Sunday we repeated the seven-hour journey home, but not before we hit the beach at Cascais. Another beautiful Portugal town, we walked right off the train and onto the public beach. Though the water was probably colder than Lake Tahoe in summer, the weather was perfect. The only tan lines I have are from my flip-flops, so I was overjoyed to find remnants of my bathing suit line on my body. Hooray for sun damage!
This trip actually took place two weekends ago, so stay tuned for my journey to Galicia. I didn't want to lose any fans by making this post insanely long. I hope to update the blog tomorrow, along with a link to pictures. Despite my sexy phlegm, I'm off to Cafe Erasmus for Intercambio, where I'll hopefully meet boys who want to practice their English skills. Ciao!
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Blowing fuses and other mishaps
I've now collected a fair-sized collection of drunkard foods. Potato chips, cookies, and cereal bars sit under my bed, waiting for their demise. My open bag of peanuts on the table seems like an open invitation for some small creature. I fear that when I open my door, I'll see a mouse happily munching on my snacks. Of course, I have no confirmation that little critters have infested the apartment, but my friend told me that her senora cheerfully informed her that she had two cats to chase away the "ratitas." We have no cats, so I guess that's a plus. If I could just place my food in the kitchen...
A few days ago I attempted to plug in my special contact lens disinfection unit. What can I say, I'm a delicate flower with sensitive eyes. The device magically lit up for about 20 seconds, made a horrible popping noise, and the entire apartment went black. Damn you, Dr. Azman, and your faulty voltage! My senora was in the hall talking to a neighbor, so I frantically hid the evidence and tried to fan away the horrible burning smell. When she came back in, I told her that the power stopped working, and I realized my inferior knowledge of Spanish when I couldn't explain at all what had happened. Since I don't know the words for fuse, outlet, and plug, I mostly made hand movements and shrugged. She asked me what I was doing and why it smelled like smoke, but how could I explain my sensitive eyes in Spanish? I just gave up and said I didn't know. Maybe if I keep blowing fuses I'll get transferred to another family.
The Emory group visited Segovia and Avila last weekend, where we encountered the Wake Forest group. Our program director was explaining the history of a beautiful church when we started being heckled by loud Americans. It turns out the Wake Forest group was also visiting the two cities on the same day. Great minds think alike. Segovia was absolutely beautiful; narrow streets, Roman aqueducts, Arab embellishments on the exteriors of buildings, and a castle that Walt Disney copied in Sleeping Beauty. It's good to know that Americans started ripping off European ideas long before the reality television craze. Below are some photos of the town:
I bit the bullet and purchased the latest episode of Top Chef on Itunes. I can't be expected to stop watching in the middle of the season! At least I was able to watch the now-infamous video of Brit Brit crashing and burning on the VMA's. I wouldn't pay for it, but I'll totally enjoy that shit for free. The other day I was checking Perez Hilton for the latest gossip, and when I went to eat lunch, my senora was watching an entertainment program with the same celebrity fodder I had just read. At least I understood what they were saying.
Finally, I was walking home from my friend's apartment the other day with lovely Tara, and this middle-aged man started following us. He kept asking us where we lived, where we were going, and if we would give him a kiss. As we sped up, so did he. Hey, I guess persistence is key here. I told him I was a lesbian to avoid the kiss, but apparently he didn't believe me. It's funny; in a major US city, someone will generally step in if a man is obviously pestering a woman who doesn't want the attention. However, we were surrounded by people in this scenario, and no one said a word. I think being harassed repeatedly is relatively normal here. Como se dice "get the fuck away from me" en Espanol?
No foreign friends yet, but I'm working on it. I don't start class with non-Emory students until October, so it is taking a little while. I got a working microphone, so I'm now able to communicate on Skype. L'shana tova tomorrow for all my Jewish peeps! I'll make sure to wish my senora a happy new year.
Halley
A few days ago I attempted to plug in my special contact lens disinfection unit. What can I say, I'm a delicate flower with sensitive eyes. The device magically lit up for about 20 seconds, made a horrible popping noise, and the entire apartment went black. Damn you, Dr. Azman, and your faulty voltage! My senora was in the hall talking to a neighbor, so I frantically hid the evidence and tried to fan away the horrible burning smell. When she came back in, I told her that the power stopped working, and I realized my inferior knowledge of Spanish when I couldn't explain at all what had happened. Since I don't know the words for fuse, outlet, and plug, I mostly made hand movements and shrugged. She asked me what I was doing and why it smelled like smoke, but how could I explain my sensitive eyes in Spanish? I just gave up and said I didn't know. Maybe if I keep blowing fuses I'll get transferred to another family.
The Emory group visited Segovia and Avila last weekend, where we encountered the Wake Forest group. Our program director was explaining the history of a beautiful church when we started being heckled by loud Americans. It turns out the Wake Forest group was also visiting the two cities on the same day. Great minds think alike. Segovia was absolutely beautiful; narrow streets, Roman aqueducts, Arab embellishments on the exteriors of buildings, and a castle that Walt Disney copied in Sleeping Beauty. It's good to know that Americans started ripping off European ideas long before the reality television craze. Below are some photos of the town:
We climbed to the top of the castle and viewed a magnificent portrait of the city and surrounding countryside. The funny thing about Castilla-Leon is that these wonderful towns pop up out of nowhere. There will be thirty minutes of bland farm land that resembles the hills of the Bay Area, and all of a sudden an ancient town appears. For the most part, the cities of this region are built around the rivers, but it still seems quite random.
My program director and professor, Maica, is one of the best and most knowledgeable tour guides I've ever had. She knows so much historical info about every painting, castle, monument, church, and site we visit. While in Segovia, we passed by the entrance the the former Jewish ghetto, marked by a building called Corpus Christi. It used to be a synagogue (like 700 years ago), but it now houses a church. While explaining the period of the Inquisition and the rise of Ferdinand and Isabel, Maica said that the expulsion of the Jews from Spain was not done out of anti-semitism. The rulers of Spain simply wanted to unify the country under one religion, and that meant expelling all those who were not Catholic. Ok, it's a decent explanation, but if there was no Jew-hating involved, was it really necessary to burn/execute those Jews who wouldn't convert? That's like saying that the colonization movement of the early 19th century, where we tried to get rid of a bunch of African-Americans by shipping them off to Africa, was done to bring them back to their homeland and make them more comfortable. Yeah, it was that, and maybe because our country was incredibly racist and wanted blacks as slaves or not at all. It was interesting to hear a Spaniard's perspective on the lack of Jews in Spain due to royal policy. I obviously don't agree with this view, but at least Maica is attempting to maintain national pride.
After lunch in Segovia, we got back on the bus and headed to Avila, which is famous for its muralla, a huge stone wall that surrounds and protects the city. We were all pretty exhausted by this time, so the bitching commenced. As we were climbing stairs to get to the top of the muralla, a couple girls started complaining about how they just wanted to get back on the bus. Ah Emory, you bring us students full of privilege and angst. What did these people think this program was going to be like? A leisurely ride in a private car through the country? Look, we all know how much I love to exercise, hike, or basically get off my ass and walk anywhere, but I honored my aching limbs as proof of my increased knowledge of Spain. If I'm not kvetching, then no one else should be. Here is a picture of the famous muralla. The best part of the wall is the fact that the Spaniards ripped up a Roman graveyard and used all of the headstones in the construction of the wall. It's like an authentic Indian burial ground without the Indians. You can still see some of the inscriptions on the tombstones embedded in the wall.
I bit the bullet and purchased the latest episode of Top Chef on Itunes. I can't be expected to stop watching in the middle of the season! At least I was able to watch the now-infamous video of Brit Brit crashing and burning on the VMA's. I wouldn't pay for it, but I'll totally enjoy that shit for free. The other day I was checking Perez Hilton for the latest gossip, and when I went to eat lunch, my senora was watching an entertainment program with the same celebrity fodder I had just read. At least I understood what they were saying.
Finally, I was walking home from my friend's apartment the other day with lovely Tara, and this middle-aged man started following us. He kept asking us where we lived, where we were going, and if we would give him a kiss. As we sped up, so did he. Hey, I guess persistence is key here. I told him I was a lesbian to avoid the kiss, but apparently he didn't believe me. It's funny; in a major US city, someone will generally step in if a man is obviously pestering a woman who doesn't want the attention. However, we were surrounded by people in this scenario, and no one said a word. I think being harassed repeatedly is relatively normal here. Como se dice "get the fuck away from me" en Espanol?
No foreign friends yet, but I'm working on it. I don't start class with non-Emory students until October, so it is taking a little while. I got a working microphone, so I'm now able to communicate on Skype. L'shana tova tomorrow for all my Jewish peeps! I'll make sure to wish my senora a happy new year.
Halley
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
I miss free laundry
Until October, I only have class on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Today I took advantage of my free time and explored Paseo de la Estacion, the street on which I live. So far I've only walked to and from class, and I wanted to see where the grocery stores/pharmacies/drug dealers (just kidding) are in relation to my building. Dios mio, how I miss Target. However, I did find a store called Carrefour that sells groceries and some basic bathroom supplies. My aunt wears this really wonderful-smelling cologne from Spain that is actually for babies. Well, to my delight I managed to find the product. Only after I bought it did I realize that wearing a foreign baby product in the US is ok because no one knows what it is, but wearing it in Spain, especially since I don't have a baby, could be a bit odd.
Everyone in Europe wears cool, non flip-flop sandals, so I went into a store to try on a pair. I asked the saleswoman (in Spanish) if they carried a smaller size, and she looked at me and replied, "I don't speak your language." Ouch. Nothing says confidence like being totally misunderstood after taking 9 years of a language. My ego has taken an enormous nosedive since this afternoon.
The idea that everyone knows English certainly does not apply here. My host family speaks no English and has never been to the US, so communicating about my culture is very difficult. Speaking of my homestay, I wish I could say I was happier. Life outside of the home is great, but I don't feel very comfortable in the apartment. Most of my friends have charming senoras. I really have no relationship with my family. I eat with them, and that's about it. Part of it is definitely the age gap (my 20 years versus their 67), but it's also the general attitude in the house. My senora is certainly a nice person, but she pretty much provides the bare minimum of services. I can't put food in the kitchen, keep shampoo in the bathroom, or wash any of my clothes, even if I do it myself in the tub. I just hear my friends talking about how they bonded with their senora and like spending time at home, and it makes me depressed. This blog is my equivalent of a journal, so please excuse the bitching. It's really not that bad, but it's things like paying 11 euros for a load of laundry that make me homesick. I'm trying to find a laundry mat so I can avoid this hefty fee. As my Mom rightly reminded me, at least I'm not in Ghana (sorry, Ashlee).
On Saturday the Emory group is visiting Segovia-Avila, so expect an update after that excursion. I hope all is well, and feel free to leave comments because I love to read them!
Buenas noches.
Everyone in Europe wears cool, non flip-flop sandals, so I went into a store to try on a pair. I asked the saleswoman (in Spanish) if they carried a smaller size, and she looked at me and replied, "I don't speak your language." Ouch. Nothing says confidence like being totally misunderstood after taking 9 years of a language. My ego has taken an enormous nosedive since this afternoon.
The idea that everyone knows English certainly does not apply here. My host family speaks no English and has never been to the US, so communicating about my culture is very difficult. Speaking of my homestay, I wish I could say I was happier. Life outside of the home is great, but I don't feel very comfortable in the apartment. Most of my friends have charming senoras. I really have no relationship with my family. I eat with them, and that's about it. Part of it is definitely the age gap (my 20 years versus their 67), but it's also the general attitude in the house. My senora is certainly a nice person, but she pretty much provides the bare minimum of services. I can't put food in the kitchen, keep shampoo in the bathroom, or wash any of my clothes, even if I do it myself in the tub. I just hear my friends talking about how they bonded with their senora and like spending time at home, and it makes me depressed. This blog is my equivalent of a journal, so please excuse the bitching. It's really not that bad, but it's things like paying 11 euros for a load of laundry that make me homesick. I'm trying to find a laundry mat so I can avoid this hefty fee. As my Mom rightly reminded me, at least I'm not in Ghana (sorry, Ashlee).
On Saturday the Emory group is visiting Segovia-Avila, so expect an update after that excursion. I hope all is well, and feel free to leave comments because I love to read them!
Buenas noches.
Monday, September 3, 2007
Te quiero un huevo
First of all, let me start out by giving credit when it's due. Charlie is the creative force behind "Bloga Nagila," a manipulation of Hava Nagila for all you gentiles. I think it's pretty funny, anyway. I arrived in Madrid on Thursday morning, where I immediately checked into my room and lapsed into a coma. I then roamed the city for a few hours until I stumbled upon two other Emory students in my program.
During my time in Madrid I visited the Reina Sofia, where Guernica and avertly sexual Dali paintings are housed. It was incredible to see Picasso's Guernica after learning about it every year in Spanish since the 8th grade. We also took a trip to the Prado, and I stared at Las Meninas for about 10 minutes, trying to find every minute detail Velazquez included. Taking Art History was a smart decision because I actually feel capable of interpreting these famous works of art. Since I can't tell you a thing about poetry, my base knowledge of art means a lot to me. We went out in Madrid, and the nightlife is insane. The discos don't get crowded until about 2 am, and it seems the crowd flows from one neighborhood to another, leaving destruction and litter in its wake. There are at least 5 different party sections in Madrid, and we went to about three of them. Having never been to a gay bar, I was thrilled to explore Chueca, the mecca of homosexuality. You know immediately when you enter this neighborhood. We went into a couple of bars, and then we saw this trendy-looking disco called Priscilla. The bouncer laughed at us as we walked in, and I soon knew why. Trendy on the outside, yes, but very obviously a lesbian nightclub on the inside. Bouncers heckle you if you leave a club too early, so we used the bathrooms (much cleaner than co-ed clubs), and then we split. After Chueca we headed home, but we got caught up in a 2 hour detour that involved getting quite lost and meeting an Italian and a guy who claimed he was from Yugoslavia, but his passport said Macedonia. The Italian, apparently trying to impress my friend with his travels, told Krista that he had a kid in the US, and the other one was just crazy. At 4:30 we finally made it back to the hotel, but nightlife really doesn't end until about 6 or 7 in the morning.
I'm writing this post from my convent-esque room in Salamanca. It's definitely a Catholic country when you have a cross on your bed and a picture of the Virgin Mary above your head. My senora did offer to remove it, but my agnostic self could probably use any kind of religious influence. I told my family I was Jewish, and they seemed a little surprised I lived in the US. I guess that's what you can expect from a country that got rid of all Jews hundreds of years ago. The portion of the city that houses the university is absolutely breathtaking; 16th century buildings line the narrow streets, and the stone facades positively gleam in the midday sun. I'm not exaggerating. Expect many more posts and pictures to come as long as I can steal my neighbor's wifi. I don't get internet access at the universidad until October, so communication may be a little hard.
As for the title of this post, there are a ton of tourist shops near the plaza mayor, and I keep seeing this phrase on t-shirts and thongs. Te quiero I get (I want you), but the egg part is lost on me. Some things don't seem to translate well. Interpretations are welcome.
Besos,
Halley
During my time in Madrid I visited the Reina Sofia, where Guernica and avertly sexual Dali paintings are housed. It was incredible to see Picasso's Guernica after learning about it every year in Spanish since the 8th grade. We also took a trip to the Prado, and I stared at Las Meninas for about 10 minutes, trying to find every minute detail Velazquez included. Taking Art History was a smart decision because I actually feel capable of interpreting these famous works of art. Since I can't tell you a thing about poetry, my base knowledge of art means a lot to me. We went out in Madrid, and the nightlife is insane. The discos don't get crowded until about 2 am, and it seems the crowd flows from one neighborhood to another, leaving destruction and litter in its wake. There are at least 5 different party sections in Madrid, and we went to about three of them. Having never been to a gay bar, I was thrilled to explore Chueca, the mecca of homosexuality. You know immediately when you enter this neighborhood. We went into a couple of bars, and then we saw this trendy-looking disco called Priscilla. The bouncer laughed at us as we walked in, and I soon knew why. Trendy on the outside, yes, but very obviously a lesbian nightclub on the inside. Bouncers heckle you if you leave a club too early, so we used the bathrooms (much cleaner than co-ed clubs), and then we split. After Chueca we headed home, but we got caught up in a 2 hour detour that involved getting quite lost and meeting an Italian and a guy who claimed he was from Yugoslavia, but his passport said Macedonia. The Italian, apparently trying to impress my friend with his travels, told Krista that he had a kid in the US, and the other one was just crazy. At 4:30 we finally made it back to the hotel, but nightlife really doesn't end until about 6 or 7 in the morning.
I'm writing this post from my convent-esque room in Salamanca. It's definitely a Catholic country when you have a cross on your bed and a picture of the Virgin Mary above your head. My senora did offer to remove it, but my agnostic self could probably use any kind of religious influence. I told my family I was Jewish, and they seemed a little surprised I lived in the US. I guess that's what you can expect from a country that got rid of all Jews hundreds of years ago. The portion of the city that houses the university is absolutely breathtaking; 16th century buildings line the narrow streets, and the stone facades positively gleam in the midday sun. I'm not exaggerating. Expect many more posts and pictures to come as long as I can steal my neighbor's wifi. I don't get internet access at the universidad until October, so communication may be a little hard.
As for the title of this post, there are a ton of tourist shops near the plaza mayor, and I keep seeing this phrase on t-shirts and thongs. Te quiero I get (I want you), but the egg part is lost on me. Some things don't seem to translate well. Interpretations are welcome.
Besos,
Halley
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