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