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!

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:

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

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.

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