¿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

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!