La Exploración de la Ciudad

                By some grace of God, I woke up Sunday morning around 7:15 to go run. I do not know how this happened, but it was quite fortunate. We walked to one of the many parks in Madrid, and began our run well before the heat set in. The park was beautiful: Madrid does an excellent job of maintaining green space. There were lush gardens in the middle (complete with peacocks), a few fountains, an “adult playground” of self-powered workout equipment, a little plaza where a band was playing, and a path that ran down the middle of the park which was occupied by the finish line for a race that was taking place later. I realized what a welcome sight the shady grass was, as there had literally been none in Cádiz.

                After showering and collecting our delicious breakfast of one piece of bread (Spaniards have no respect for the meal, apparently), Anna and I set about locating a church, which was not hard since essentially all of Spain is Catholic. After having been unavailable on Sunday morning for almost a month, the mass was a welcome sight. I love being able to listen to mass in Spanish, especially granted the fact that the Catholic mass is more or less the same in any language, which makes it slightly less daunting. I was especially grateful to have a familiar experience amidst all of the other topsy-turvy aspects of life in Europe. With mass every hour of the morning on Sundays, the priest wasted no time, and had everyone out of there within 45 minutes.

                We then set out to explore the city, careful to plan our ventures so that we would be back inside by 5:00, when the temperatures were set to soar over the hundreds. After a brief walk, we eventually came to another park. I’m not sure of its name, but this one was much larger than the one we had run in that morning, although equally green and shady. There were several street performers, each with an incredibly different act. A man made bubbles for several giggling children using a string attached between two poles, others played various instruments, blankets were laid out full of goods from fans to homemade bracelets, and two other men, with white beards painted on their faces, were creating quite a raucous. We stopped by to watch them for a second. They were performing all kinds of astounding acrobatic feats, such as standing on each other’s shoulders, flipping across each other’s backs, doing headstands in the other’s hands, all over a very hard, unforgiving, pavement backdrop. They playfully bantered at one another, clearly supposed to be some kind of “old men” act, and carried on for a good half hour, with a captivated crowd holding its collective breath with every toss and leap. Finally tearing ourselves away, we continued on to a little pond with boats in it.

                I was absolutely elated to discover that one could rent an hour on one of these rowboats for 5€ divided between four people. I am easily suckered into anything involving boats, so despite the midday sun, lack of sunblock, and fact that we were all clad in dresses, we rented the boats and set out on the pond. The reprieve from sightseeing, museums, walking, and old things put me in such high spirits that the rest of the day just seemed delightful. For future reference: boats are a good idea, and rarely fail to make a lot of people happy, especially if you volunteer to be the rower. After the boats, we continued on our quest to acquaint ourselves with the city, and made our way to the train station. The train station had an entire jungle inside of it. Trees and plants sprung from the floor beneath a glass ceiling, and benches laced the walkways. Little overpriced kiosks, restaurants, and milling people encircled the area. It was a surprisingly relaxed atmosphere despite all of the hassled and stressed travelers that were surely hidden away somewhere within the enormous complex. We explored for a while, and then headed out again to go get lunch.

                Any meal is always an excursion to see just how far you can stretch a euro. Restaurants tend to nickel and dime you until you are completely broke. Water is not free, and generally, neither is bread, even though both are set upon the table once you sit down. Furthermore, you are not allowed to share, and the waiters remove the utensils of the people who do not order food. So, naturally, we managed to stealthily split two specials of the day among five people. Lunch consisted of delicious seafood paella, grilled tuna, patatas bravas, peach juice, and homemade flan, as well as sink water from the bathroom that we smuggled in various water bottles to the table. Eating cheaply is certainly doable. After lunch, we made our way back to the hostel as quickly as possible so as not to die of heat stroke as temperatures began to crescendo.

                By that evening, we were all worn out from all of the walking and the heat, and so we turned in pretty early. The following morning, our Cádiz classes “continued” with a guest lecture from a lady who was a proponent of alternative medicine. She spoke for a while about the different facets of non-medical treatments and therapies, and was fairly interesting, until she began to speak about crystals and energy centers, at which point I was too confused to follow the Spanish. After being told that another paper was expected from us by morning, we were released back into the city. We spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon walking again, this time to more parks and plazas and the Palacio Real de Madrid, which was an impressive sight, before turning in for our siestas. Tomorrow, we will finally be moving into our residencia where we will be staying for the remainder of the program. And the following day, Wednesday, classes will resume… an unfortunate occurrence that we are not looking forward to.

                Madrid is proving itself to be quite a remarkable city. Despite its enormous size, there exists here none of the gray sprawl that is Atlanta. Beautiful architecture and history abound, and there is no lack of trees, flowers, and parks. Even the advertisements are tasteful: at one point, we passed dozens of poster-sized signs raising awareness for Down syndrome, which featured artful pictures of babies, all different, with lyrical Spanish quotes beneath them. It is certainly a fascinating city. The absurd cost of living, however, is quickly proving to be a damper. I am going to have to learn as soon as possible how to avoid the steep price tags that follow the historical sights and local cuisine in order to effectively explore this captivating culture. This mission is rapidly turning into the challenge of the month. If anyone knows of anything exciting to do in Madrid that is extremely cheap and/or preferably free, information would be greatly appreciated! In the meantime, I believe a siesta is in order.

La Última Semana

                Our last week in Cadiz has absolutely flown by. Besides having three exams in the last two days, it has been relatively uneventful. I spent the week doing homework for my favorite professor, including a four page essay as well as tens of thousands of baby notecards. My brain is a mixture of mush and assorted Spanish words. During the week, however, I did receive some exciting news. During a visit to the Red Cross station located near the Old Town for our culture class one day, Dr. Labarca absentmindedly asked, “Alexi, would you like to come back to la Cruz Roja?” I had spent the visit thinking of similar things I would try and find when I got back to Atlanta, and trying to think of what name she would come up with to call me next, so of course I answered with an affirmative, thinking nothing of it. “İYa está! Ok, I will talk to the people at Mundo Lengua.” I was completely baffled for a moment, before realizing that I quite possibly may have just wheedled my way out of my immigrant mosque research. So that is the latest developing story, as the saga of the loca doctora continues.

                As the week drew to a close, things started to pick back up. On Thursday, June 23^rd (the night before our tests), the festival of San Juan came into full swing, as the four days of festivities progress with the burning of los Juanillos, homemade dolls that resemble political figures. We were also told that everyone dresses in white, eats, drinks, and watches fireworks, and then run into the waves at midnight. Having done a project on the subject, I was particularly interested to learn how the actual celebration differed from our research. Our teacher from the school, Marta, was baffled when no one said they were planning on going out. She said it was definitely something to see, even though “es solamente una excusa de los jóvenes para beber en la playa”, and we had two tests the next day. So, after school, we went home, studied until 11 p.m., and headed out to the beach, equipped with notecards and 1€ bottles of tinto verano. I believe I speak for all when I say it is probably the only time that our little group of about five or six Tech students would ever in our lives be caught dead out the night before a test. Nevertheless, we plopped in the sands near the new city to watch the fireworks and to see if anyone actually ran in (apparently that only happened at a particular beach in the old city). At around 1:30, we returned to our houses, and armed with the knowledge that “tinto makes everything better”, I rallied to study some more. I have to say, it was definitely worth the groggy morning that followed to have experienced the fiesta with the Spaniards.

                Friday, our friends from Mundo Lengua threw us a going away party, complete with homemade paella and sangria. My fellow native Floridian, Emily, and I were in charge of anally cutting the squid and speed-peeling the shrimp. After about an hour of chopping, cutting, and stealing fruit, Marta started the enormous, simmering batch of paella, and threw fruit, wine, and lemonade into a huge basin for the sangria. We had quite a feast. All twenty-two of us headed straight to the beach afterwards, to finish out our last hours of sunlight in Cádiz, dragging ourselves away only to get ready to go out for the night.

                We met Marta in the Plaza Victoria to head to the old town. Of course, the rest of the group left right as one girl went to the bathroom, and knowing how bad it is to get left with no cell phone in a foreign country, and being the kind soul that I am, I waited for her with Lisa. Naturally, we all three were lost then. So we wandered along the walk for about 40 minutes before realizing we were already on the other side of the little peninsula and still had not found anyone. Deciding to make the most of our last night, however, we were resolved to do something on one of the few nights that we were actually out after dark. Lights loomed ahead of us on the bay, and crowds of people were headed towards them, so we joined the throng. We came to a gate that the crowd bottlenecked into which was guarded by policemen. After establishing that there was free entry, we slipped in to discover the continuation of the festival of San Juan.

                There were booths everywhere, and the delicious smell of fried seafood was thick in the air. Silver jewelry, bright colored clothes, and an enormous assortment of gummies laced the atmosphere with every color. On stage, a band was playing “flamenco rock”, a genre that penetrates the body and makes it impossible to stand still without swaying or bouncing. Behind the hullabaloo, the source of the lights that had drawn us in became clear: boats. My sailor heart skipped a beat, as I bee-lined through the crowd with eyes wide open and frantic companions in tow, towards the illuminated skeletons bobbing in the harbor. Of all the things we had seen while being in Spain, the grand old enormous, flickering schooners had to have been one of my favorite sights. They somehow seemed to embody the Gaditano culture, both old and new, and were the perfect touch to the festival. For some reason, even though the scene was a sight that was no stranger to me, I finally seemed to register where exactly I was. Cádiz: the quaint old city where Christopher Columbus had set sail at one point, where Romans, Arabs, and the famous Catholic Kings of Spain had resided, where the beach is the most influential part of daily life, where dark-haired children run, play, and befriend the blatant Americans who are borrowing there school, where the black night is interrupted only by twinkling stars, and the nighttime sea melds seamlessly into the wide open sky. The realization struck me hard of just how much I was going to miss this place.

                We walked a little more, looking at all of the things laid out on tables, when suddenly, “Alejandra!” I looked up, confounded as to who in this city knew my name, to see Marta’s beaming face, and the rest of our group congregating behind her. Our reunion seemed to lift everyone’s spirits, as we got our second wind and began to fight through the multitude of lively bodies to get closer to the stage. My friend Anna, who introduces herself as Anna Alta to the petite Hispanics, and I laughed when we could both see clear over the dark heads of everyone in the crowd straight to the stage. We danced and sang what few words we could pick out of the songs, surrounded by the whole class, teacher, and T.A. Study abroad, what an experience. With an early morning ahead of everyone, however, we finally started to prepare to head out. We lined up to bid adieu to Marta: Marta, who had kept us sane for the month, relieved us from our psychotic professor, taught us so much about the locals, and now had tears in her eyes as we were about to part ways. Goodbyes aren’t easy in any language.

                A somber group filed down the Paseo Marítimo one last time, on our way back to our little apartments for the final night. It was a very brief night. Before I knew it, Lisa and I were gathering up the room, tossing and shoving things into bags as quietly as we could. I finally lay across my bag, fought the zipper to the close, and plopped down, staring at the room that seemed none the wiser as to our stay. We said goodbye and thanked our family, who reluctantly delivered as many words as they had all week, and left the 6^th floor apartment on Calle Goya. An uneventful plane and bus ride later, here we are in Madrid, at the Hostel Nuria (real high quality, check it out). Madrid is no Cádiz, but we have already located a 5€ paella café, so it doesn’t look like life will be too difficult. We will be off to explore the city momentarily, in the balmy, 100°, afternoon weather. Thus, the Great Spain Adventure continues. Location: Madrid.  

Un Fin de Semana Muy Largo

                It was a weekend full of more sightseeing, more ancient architecture, and more loca Labarca ramblings. No sooner had we boarded the bus early Thursday morning and just begun to drift off to sleep for the four-or-so hour bus ride, a shrill voice came over the speakers: “Dee dee dee DEEEE!” That was about when we knew it would be a long weekend. We commenced to sit through a lecture on the bus for the remaining time to Granada, our first stop… and to every stop thereafter.

                We spent Thursday and Friday morning in Granada, where we saw the famous Alhambra. The Alhambra and surrounding gardens, Generalife, was beautiful. Apparently, it was slated to be considered for one of the Seven Wonders of the World, except some king had built something in the middle of it that did not match the original architecture, so it could no longer be considered. As the heat of the day approached, we reloaded our bus and drove a few more hours to Sevilla, where we remained until Sunday morning. In Seville, we saw the third largest cathedral in the world…which we were unaware of until we were leaving and overheard an English-speaking tour guide mention the fact to some visitors as they entered. Things like this would be nice to know. We spent Friday and Saturday wandering around the city, trying to find the cheapest helado available, and fervently seeking to feed ourselves on the minimum number of euros a day: everyone’s funds are fast depleting.

                Potentially the most exciting part of our stay in Seville was my discovery of cheap paella. On our way to the cathedral, we had passed several signs for paella, the cheapest of which was just five euros. For lunch, however, in an effort to save money, we went to el Corte Inglés, which is like an extremely upscale Spanish version of Wal-Mart. Even the Wal-Marts here are fancy! Anyways, we bought an assortment of cookies and juice, and brought our bountiful harvest back to the hotel to divvy up. Naturally, by the time dinner rolled around, I was having serious seafood cravings, and thus we set out on our quest for seafood paella. We quickly discovered that paella is a lunch dish, and apparently no one is open for dinner until after 9. We marched around the city nevertheless, passing some places with $45 paella, which was obviously not going to happen. Just as we dragged ourselves back to the hotel, there it was! Across from the hotel and Spanish Wal-Mart, lo and behold, five euro paella! We were further pleasantly surprised to discover that the small restaurant we had scouted, La Cervecería y Cafetería de la Victoria, also had free bread and free water, hot commodities here in Spain.

                Sunday morning, back on the bus, laden with stashed food from our included breakfast, and with the painfully screechy voice back on the loudspeaker, we set out for Córdoba, of which we only knew that it was supposed to be the hottest city yet. We arrived in Córdoba around 2:00, just in time for everyone to be closing up for their siestas, and all of the smart people to be getting off the streets. Not us: Labarca cast us into the city, instructing us to meet at a mosque in a few hours. We devoured our cheese sandwiches and jelly packets from the hotel, and began to navigate through the city. We eventually located the mosque, which was now a cathedral which had apparently changed hands between the Muslims and Christians multiple times over the last few centuries. Unfortunately, that is approximately the depth of my knowledge on the matter, as Labarca proceeded to go on a rant about a student of hers who was sent to Korea to find a wife because he liked Chile too much and his parents would not have it. The mosque visit finally ended, and we clambered back on the bus, ready to get back to Cádiz and away from the heat of the other Andalusian cities.

                It’s funny, the more time I spend in Cádiz, the more it starts to feel like St. Augustine. Returning from our weekend excursions is starting to feel more and more like escaping Atlanta. Stepping off the bus this time, I was blasted with the familiar, salty air that I have only recently been able to smell. It’s so nice to escape the hot and dusty hustle and bustle of the larger and more touristy cities and come back to our own little beach town. Today was the first day of our last week here… after our three tests on Friday, it’s off to Madrid. It will be sad to be plucked away from the sea once again, but for now, I will be focusing on enjoying these last few days on the Andalusian coast.

Un Poco Mejor

                I continue my worldly travels, with another new and exotic experience under my, slightly smaller, belt. Since my ventures into Africa, I have been lying in my bed for the past five days, subsisting off of the tiny crusts of bread that I could stomach, and learning colorful new names for my affliction. My personal favorites that I have come across are Montezuma’s Revenge, the Delhi Belly, and the Hong Kong Dog, but sadly, I couldn’t find one pertinent to the Spanish region. Whatever you want to call it, it has managed to decimate my writing material, seeing as I haven’t been able to do all that much. On the bright side, since my host mom knows I haven’t been feeling well, I have been spared the hamburgers, meatballs, and “French fries” that my poor roommate Lisa has been forcing down.

                As I lay here dying, our class went to Flamenco dance lessons. I apologize; I cannot enlighten you on the subject. I emerged from my sick cave for the first time yesterday, to drag myself to school and take two very long and painful Spanish tests. Today, we visited el Central Integrada de la Mujer, which was like a very upscale women’s shelter. It had about 5 or 6 levels, and was a very nice, well-lit building, consisting of classrooms, a library, a daycare, a rooftop terrace, and several other different areas. We watched a few presentations on la violencia machista, and learned several new statistics. Abuse against women is apparently prevalent all throughout the world, but Spain seems to be doing a good job to remedy it. It is at least nice to know that the women and children have a place as nice as this for shelter.  

                Tomorrow, our class will set out for Granada, Sevilla, and Cordoba. We don’t seem to have a schedule, and it has been unanimously decided that our professor is complete locura, so this ought to be interesting. The cities seem beautiful, and interesting enough, so it is certainly better than sitting in our classroom back at Mundo Lengua, next to the jackhammers and welding workshop. But for now, I am off to experience the lovely Cádiz beach for the first time (İQue lastima!), and summon up my strength: I heard tell someone found a volleyball net.

Marruecos

                 6 am, Friday morning: time to take advantage of our three day weekend! We got ready, and made our way to the bus stop (ensuring that we got there with several minutes to spare, this time…European travel waits for no one). Luckily, everyone made it to the stop on time, and after a relatively uneventful bus ride, we arrived in Tarifa around 9:00. Although we were prepared for a Lisboa repeat, we could actually ask for direction in this language, which was quite an improvement. As it turned out, all we had to do was follow the beach around until we saw the ferry stop.

                It was quite the scenic route…the beach was gorgeous in the early morning sun, and the group was in much higher spirits. After walking a while, we stumbled upon sort of an outdoor workout area, complete with human powered machines. A better comparison would probably be that it was like an adult playground. So, of course, everyone had to test out every machine. After we had gotten our exercise in for the day, we continued our trek across the beach. In a surprisingly short time, we had located the ferry, with an hour and a half to spare. We ate breakfast (crepes and amazing fresh squeezed orange juice) across from the marina, and then checked in and boarded the ferry.

                45 minutes later, we arrived on my fourth continent: Africa! After several long customs lines, we finally stepped out of the ferry, and into Tánger, Morocco. Africa did not look all that much different from Spain: buildings crowded the hillside, streets hustled and bustled, and the cement expanse of the ferry landing stretched quite a ways. We soon embarked upon our tour bus, and continued our adventure. Our tour guide switched rapidly and without warning between three or four languages, of which I only understood the English and Spanish portions of the tour, so I can’t tell you all that much about Morocco. After driving for a while, and listening to the hodgepodge of languages, the bus soon pulled to a stop up in the hills. We were greeted by several camels, gazing at the bus full of tourists quite nonchalantly. My friend Anna and I bolted out of the bus (we joked that we only wanted to go to Africa to ride a camel) and were first in line to jump on one of the three or so saggy and bored-looking camels. We didn’t go very far, but it was still pretty exciting. When the camel stopped and knelt down, I was almost catapulted over its head as it folded its front legs first. I clung to it for dear life, until I realized it had been kneeling for a few moments. Ride a camel in Africa: check.

                We continued on our journey, driving through the city and the mountains, until we finally came to a stop and were met by a guide. No sooner had we stepped off the bus, we were descended upon by innumerous people thrusting their goods in our faces and telling us to, “Look, just look at it! How much you pay?” That should have been warning enough for how the rest of the day would proceed. The guide dragged us through the streets of Tánger, through a tiny crevice amidst all of the peddlers. He finally ducked inside a door, where we hoped to find a reprieve, but were greeted by walls full of rugs. We went upstairs, where we watched a man present dozens of rugs to us. I had to wonder whether he actually expected anyone out of an American group of students to buy an enormously heavy, and unbearably expensive, handmade rug, but we sat it out anyways, to be polite. Anxious to get out of the expensive place, we headed toward the door: a wall of people stood there, and hands clutching small wooden camels, various stones, drums, and jewelry protruded forth from it. The guide plowed on through. Back out into the crowded streets, heads bent against the attacking salespeople and store owners, we soon made it to our next stop: some kind of herb store. Another presentation of just about every herb and spice in the store ensued, and again we waited patiently. Same story: the lack of purchases since we had to go through customs, the wall of people, the march through the streets, and the arrival at the next place: a restaurant.

                We shuffled through the door, and were seated at our tables, the accompanying chairs of which were low couches. The restaurant was ornately decorated, and a Moroccan band serenaded us as we ate. For the first course, we had some kind of noodle soup topped with cinnamon, which had an exotic effect since the cinnamon could only be smelled and not tasted. Next, we were served skewers of what I believe were like sheep kabobs. Thinking this was the main course, had just sat back to rub our full bellies, when the waiter returned with plates of roasted chicken and couscous. With a little less ease, we shoveled down a tiny bit more food before desert was brought out: some kind of sweet pastry that seemed very similar to baklava, accompanied by mint tea. Needless to say, we essentially had to roll out of that restaurant. We fought through the increasingly rude and adamant hawkers, and soon made it to our hotel.

                The hotel had a beautiful view overlooking the Mediterranean, and was settled just behind where the ferries came into port. It had a big patio, and several sitting rooms filled with long couches. No sooner had we checked in and deposited our luggage, we discovered an old man waiting for us downstairs. He wore a long, white garb, and traditional yellow Moroccan shoes, which resembled bedroom slippers. He peered over his glasses, and introduced himself as Mo, saying that he would be our own personal guide for the evening (after much of our group had opted for the single day excursion and returned to the ferry already). Exhausted though we were, we braved the streets once more.

                Whether it was because Mo was apparently a respected figure, or because it was no longer prime tourist hours, it was much less painful this time around. We watched a man just finishing a mosaic as he put in the very last piece, went to a park where several children ran around and parents sat nearby, and walked through much calmer streets. Mo soon announced that he had someplace very special to take us. Five minutes later, we found ourselves in another rug shop.

                This time, however, we got to hear the usual presentation in Spanish. It was amazing at how much easier Moroccan-accented Spanish was to understand than the rattling that we were used to. Eager to show us their “Moroccan hospitality”, the rug shop owner and some employees promptly brought out some more of their delicious mint tea. After the presentation, we talked with some of the employees. Their fluency was astounding, and I was shocked to find that he knew nearly eight languages. To be aware that someone who knows eight languages is working in a rug shop on the other side of the world is extremely discouraging, and seems to make my Spanish efforts seem rather futile. It is a strange thing to realize how isolated America actually is. In Morocco, the children take Arabic and French all through their younger grades, and then have the option to choose to continue with one of several other languages. The schooling must be very thorough, because nearly everyone there seemed to be multilingual.

                The second rug shop was definitely a better experience than the previous one that morning, and we definitely got a better taste of the culture. I was growing optimistic about our afternoon tour as Mo announced that he had another place we just had to see. Moments later, we were back at the herb place. Apparently, all tours in Tánger consist of parading tourists through the streets to a rug shop, herb store, and restaurant. It was a rather disappointing spectacle to see, in my opinion. It seemed like the people were only concerned with selling tourists useless things, rather than painting them a picture of the real Morocco. Children would skip school to hinder tour groups, while men shoved them aside to present their own wares, which were usually the exact same. It was sad to see this kind of lifestyle, but even more so to see what a shame it was that the exotic culture seemed to have been lost in this little port town.

                We returned to the hotel that night, ate dinner, and sat on the patio for a while. Around this time, I started feeling dizzy, and soon developed a fever. After going to bed wrapped up in something that resembled a massively thick rug made of animal fur, the rest of the trip is a very vague blur to me. I lay in the hotel the next morning on my death bed, and waited for the ferry back to Tarifa. It was a painful journey back home to Cádiz, and I slept for most of it. As we got off the bus in Cádiz around 10 pm on Saturday night, however, everyone was much more aware of how wonderfully clean the air smelled, and the lack of aggressive merchants. Home Sweet Spain!

                I am still not feeling so great, so please excuse all the errors that I am sure riddle this entry. Unfortunately, I had to waste an entire day in Spain lying in bed, barely able to get any studying done, while the rest of our group is probably on the beach. But I am learning all kinds of words in Spanish to describe all of these lovely symptoms, my personal being el caca liquido, the translation of which I will spare. I find it ironic that I am supposed to be presenting this week on the Spanish Healthcare System, because if this keeps up, I may be experiencing it firsthand instead.

Buenas Noticias

                Today was far less exciting than the last few days, but still full of all kinds of good news. We completed our first presentation of the trip today, despite my horrible accent. After school, we took a trip to an Espina Bífida clinic. It was extremely challenging… we were supposed to be learning vocabulary there for our tests next week, but I was more concerned with trying to learn about the actually disease. Visits like these are always humbling: they remind us that no matter how much we think we have learned since being here, we still know literally no technical Spanish. I am constantly reminded that I will always have a long way to go.

                This afternoon, we went for a run on the beach to celebrate our día libre tomorrow. After walking back through town and climbing the six flights of stairs to the apartment, we were greeted by a delicious smell, which was unusual for two reasons. First, because it was only 10:00 p.m., and dinner was already being cooked, and second, because it smelled good. I went to our room to wait, bracing myself for the cold shower that I knew I would have to take before dinner. We were further shocked to find that dinner was ready before we had the chance to brave the icy cascade. During dinner, we received possibly the greatest news of all: the apartment has hot water after all! After two weeks of being the only ones of our group with cold showers every day, things were finally looking up.

                Now, we are faced with a three day weekend, a trip to Africa (as was decided upon this morning), and a long week of tests and presentations during the upcoming week. I can’t believe that Cádiz classes are halfway over! It’s bizarre to think about. Anyways, don’t call in international forces, parents, I will be back after the weekend. İVamos a viajar a Marruecos!

Se Pierde en la Traducción

                This week, I have been discovering that many things are lost in translation. Yes, oftentimes nonnative speakers tend to overlook words or the colloquial meaning of phrases, no matter how extensive their studies may have been. We may not completely grasp the connotations attached to descriptions and words as well as someone who has lived in a place their whole life. There will always be those words that translate to several different ones in English, and vice versa. Eventually, I suppose, people find a way to get around that, and sooner or later can distinguish well enough between caminar and pasear, and the likes.

                But then there are some things that can’t be explained… not through words, tales, or pictures. Sometimes, you really do just have to be there. I am quickly finding that, no matter how much you’ve read or heard tell about a particular subject, it doesn’t become a reality until you actually experience it firsthand. It makes me wonder: how much is lost through our history books we read? Or through the internet that can so easily pull up just about anything? Or even through eBay and Amazon, which allow you to literally buy a piece of any culture with the click of a button? Modern technology has changed what traveling used to mean: it has cheapened the exotic stories, beautiful scenery, and unique gifts that we used to be so excited to bring back. What’s the point in leaving the comfort of your own home to traipse around the world when you can pull up pictures of the rainforest or buy Oaxaca pottery in a matter of minutes? If you’re one to quell your sense of adventure with rationalizations like these, I’m not going to convince you otherwise. But for the rest of y’all out there, I would just like to reassure you that, without a doubt, there are some things that even the internet will lose in translation.

                Over the last few days, classes have been going as usual: proyectos, tarea, una profesora muy loca (nothing new there), with “excursions” in the afternoons. These excursions tend to have a broad range of level of interest, from looking at statues to visiting an engineering safety firm (I think). So after our long weekend in Portugal, and holding our eyes open through classes, we marched the 45 minutes across town to our first one of the week on Monday.

                Standing outside of a nondescript building wedged between two stores on a tiny, cobblestone street, we were divided into smaller groups, so as to be able to fit inside.  We ascended the skinny, narrow staircase, which very closely resembled the one in our lighthouse back home in St. Augustine, and stood in a room with several signs and diagrams. Too exhausted to think straight, I strung the random words I could catch together as best as I was able to, and waited patiently to be let in la torre, which was like a watch tower, from what I gathered. I later learned from a handout that this tower was called La Torre Tavira, and it was particularly famous because it is one of the few towers in the world with una Cámara Oscura. I had no idea what a “dark camera” was, but I followed our tour guide into a little room near the top of the tower along with the rest of the group, and gathered around a large, white, stone basin of some sort. It looked like someone was about to get sacrificed, when suddenly, she turned a rod which opened some sort of hole far up in the ceiling, beyond my view. Light streamed in, and projected in the basin was the entire city of Cádiz. It was the most bizarre thing I have ever seen…tiny seagulls flew around my fingertips which rested on the rail, clothing smaller than my fingernail fluttered in the wind that whipped outside the walls, a cruise boat the size of my palm chugged along around the opposite side of the basin. It was a perfect replica of every square inch of the city. We stared in awe as she rotated the basin, and different parts came into focus. Literally every shore could be seen over the sea of rooftops, and the new town was just barely visible in the misty distance. As we were leaving, I paid much closer attention to the diagrams: the best I can describe this phenomenon is that it works like a giant eye. Lenses near the top of the tower somehow focus and reflect the light onto the “retina”, the giant, shallow basin. As with the human eye, the image that we saw was upside down, but nevertheless, a perfect projection of the city.

                You never know what you will find in Spain. Yesterday, as we sat through Dr. Labarca’s scattered ramblings, another teacher from the school rushed in, chattering rapidly in Spanish. We followed her back out to the street, where an enormous procession stood waiting. Large structures which appeared to be like floats, stood laden with flowers, as women in flamenco costumes strut about. A John Deere (Juan Ciervos?) tractor was lined up behind the quaint, yet elaborate, floats, and was followed by two more tractors. The street was packed with people of all ages, carrying sprigs of rosemary and taking in the spectacle. Soon, a hush fell upon the crowd, and a faint mutter quickly grew into a song. I shocked to find myself singing along as I recognized the words: it was the Ave María, or Hail Mary prayer. The crowd sang a few more songs, and soon, the procession began to move. The children and adults riding on the floats waved at us as they passed, while others accompanied them through the streets. Later that afternoon, while researching my project on festivals in Cádiz, I learned that this procession was called “La Romería del Rocío”. This is a pilgrimage of sorts to honor the Virgin Mary, or the Virgin of the Dew, that people embark upon each year. It is supposed to start the Friday before Pentecost, and festivities continue until the Tuesday after. People travel to the city of Huelva, where there is a small church called La Iglesia del Rocío, and a small, white statue of Mary, called la Blanca Paloma, or the White Dove. Once they reach the village, the people process through the streets with the statue, and later that night, celebrate with music, fireworks, and dancing. I must say, it is certainly more motivating to do Spanish projects when the subjects of your research are happening all around you.

                Later that night, we were scheduled to go see a Flamenco show. After another hour walk to the far side of the city, we met our group, and followed our tiny, slightly insane professor, Dr. Labarca, through the streets, as she flailed her thin arms and long fingers in the motion of the classic dance of the gypsies. We settled into a small restaurant/tavern, and waited for the performers. Soon, two men took their place on the little, 12’x12’ or so, stage, and began to play their guitars. It was not exactly an appealing melody, and as one of them began to bellow, we began to think it would be a long night. After a few more songs, however, the Flamenco dancers appeared. Three tall women, with enormous heals, colorful combs, enormous flowers, and large, dangling earrings, took seats on the stage beside the musicians. One of them stood up, and stepped forward.

Back in elementary school, we learned that guapo meant handsome, but could also be changed to guapa to describe a feminine thing. I never understood why a female would want to be called handsome, or how you could describe one as such, until I saw this Flamenco dancer. She stood taller than me, and then some, with the addition of her heels. Her dark hair was slicked back, perfectly parted, and gathered into a large bun (that would rival my sister’s, Jackie’s, enormous knot) at the nape of her neck, not a hair out of place. Her long, flowing dress was black and white, with red accenting her costume. Her sharp features were fixed in such an intense scowl that I was almost scared to be sitting any closer. The music started, and she began to dance. With the first pound of an impressive heal, the table seemed to shake. A few more shuttering stomps followed. I figured this was just a warm-up of some sort, until the stomps began to progress more rapidly, and in quicker succession. Before I knew it, she stomped and swooped all over the stage, barely missing the musicians or the other dancers, and seemed to fly back and forth without ceasing the rhythmic pounding. Not a muscle in her face flinched, and the intensity did not falter. Small beads of sweat formed on her brow, but beyond that, she may as well have been a perfectly tuned machine, tapping without tap shoes, but with much greater force.

As the song ended, the pub roared its approval. The woman strode back to her seat, and settled with the utmost poise, the intense stare never wavering. The other two dancers followed with routines nearly as impressive as the first, and the three of them danced separately well into the night. As it finally drew to a close, and we filed out, the energy continued to pulse through the snug room. In the street, no one said much, as the full realization of all the effort, skill, and endurance that must have taken descended upon us. In Spanish, a Flamenco show is called una espectaculadora de Flamenco, and what a spectacle it was. Although we were completely unprepared for what we would see and equally as unaware of what the art of Flamenco actually entails, I am certain that the show would have been equally as unbelievable for anyone. Certainly, no YouTube video could do that justice.

Finally, today, we visited la Muprespa, which I had, at some point, been told was a clinic. We saw the medical testing room, with vision and hearing tests, and an EKG machine, and proceeded to a room with a screen in it. I was slightly confused by the lack of patients, and rooms, for that matter, but even more baffled when the lady began to rattle off, in paragraph upon paragraph of rapid Spanish, something about electrical engineers, marine engineers, and I’m not sure what other type. After reading the signs throughout the room, I discovered this was clearly not a clinic, but more like a private firm that was responsible for making working conditions for engineers safer, I think. I’m not really sure how someone confused the two beforehand, but we got things straightened out in the end. As I’ve been learning, you can’t interpret things too literally…you might miss something between the lines.

Nuestro Viaje a Lisboa

                First, I would like to apologize to all of my many loyal readers (a.k.a. Mama Rita, Dad, and Russell) for leaving you with bated breath. Second, I would like to apologize for my diminishing aptitude of the English language: after hearing heavily accented Portuguese, Spanish, Norwegian, broken English, and I’m not entirely sure what else for the past few days, I am satisfied with being able to communicate on a kindergarten level. Nevertheless, I will attempt to adequately describe the happenings of el fin de semana.

I and eleven other members of our group just returned from an eventful weekend in Lisbon, Portugal. After class let out early on Friday, we hustled straight to the bus stop to catch the 13:00 bus to Sevilla. From there, we had to catch another 7-or-so-hour-long bus ride (depending on how the driver was feeling that day) to the Sete Rios stop in Lisbon, and then the metro to the hostel where we were staying, finally arriving around noon on Saturday. We toured the city for the day, went to several bars and clubs until 3 a.m., and left at 8 the next morning to begin the long journey back home. Since this is my foray into the world of travel blogs, I have compiled a list of useful information for all of the adventuresome folk who would like to do Lisbon (or just about any foreign city) in a day.

1) Pack light.

                You are not moving, you are staying for a weekend, max. You don’t need that many options, especially since most likely, no one you know is going to see you. However, this does not give you license to look like a total americano. Bring a toothbrush, underwear, and bathing suit, and you should be good to go. Furthermore, the term “backpacking through Europe” was coined for a reason. Giant, green, gym bags are not synonymous, and should not be lugged throughout various cities.

2) Wear walking shoes.

                They may not be on the cover of the latest fashion magazines, but the old men with black socks and sandals may be on to something. Either wear tennis shoes, boots, or something with good arch support, no matter how unappealing it may be. You will be much more satisfied when your feet aren’t swollen and rubbed raw than you will be if someone complimented your shoes, which is most likely not going to happen here anyways.

3) Do your research.

                When in a new place, you are obligated to go and see or do whatever that city is famous for. So it is always a good idea to do a little research on the history, major battles, etc. of the land, so as to know what traditions, sights, and buildings are must-sees while you are in town. Once you get there, it may not be as obvious as you were expecting. So do your homework before you go, especially since “wee-fee” may be scarce in some corners of the world.

4) Be prepared.

                Expect the unexpected. Or if you are a staunch believer of Murphy’s law, expect the expected. Most people working in the cheap public transportation business become stressed and grumpy very easily. Things get expensive, and to add insult to injury, are usually cheaper at the very next store you go to. Buses get missed, planes lose luggage, people forget passports, etc. Trip insurance is your friend…a euro in time saves 35, as I learned the hard way (sorry, anyone who was expecting a souvenir). If the insurance is offered pretty cheaply, and you will be cutting connecting flights/rides close, I strongly suggest you make the investment.

5) Take advantage of local knowledge.

                While some locals may just smirk at the sight of you, most are happy  help, and more than willing to offer advice on their favorite, and least touristy, restaurants. Also, I have discovered walking tours, which were defined to me as free, tip-based tour programs where you are shown around the city. Look for younger tour guides: they’re usually more enthusiastic and entertaining. I guess the trade wears on you after a while. Our hostel, Lisb’on Hostel, had an excellent one given by some quadrilengual, twenty-something year old girl. I believe they were called Pancho Tours (named after a monkey), with Funky Monkey nightly pub crawls also available. I highly recommend looking them up, should you ever be in Lisbon.

6) Have a battle plan…your OWN battle plan.

                This is pretty self-explanatory. Know what your group will be doing at all times, have a meeting point for lost souls, wear watches, the usual. Chances are, someone will get left somewhere, and things will get ugly. Prepare adequately in order to minimize the fallout of such circumstances. NOT that we know from experience or anything. Your ultimate goal is to return everyone safely, so just keep that in mind.

7) NAVIGATION!!!!

                For God’s sake, splurge and buy a map, compass, or astrolabe if you have to. Don’t count on electronics, computers never cooperate. However, it may be worth your while to at least try a GPS, which probably would have been pretty helpful. Our little Techy crew wandered around the city for HOURS trying to decipher land marks, directions, Portuguese, and anything else that would help (apparently they don’t like street signs over here, either), before we finally splurged and got a map, and used someone’s trick to create a makeshift sundial and determine which way was North. Yes, we are nerds.

8) Learn the language.

                Don’t count on being able to understand languages just because they are all Latin-based…Portuguese is like Spanish and French with some extra phlegm. While you look ignorant if you are not fluent in the native language no matter what, I suppose it looks a little better if you at least make an effort to learn a few important words. My suggestions would be: please, thank you, excuse me, you’re welcome, where is, may I have, hello, etc. We helped an old lady in a cafe with her chair, and she proceeded to yell obrigado at us for a good five minutes, while we stood dumbstruck at what we did wrong. Finally, someone else came into the store and announced that she was saying “thank you”. Go figure.

9) Take a nap.

                While you may not want to miss a minute, sleep will help you in the long run. A minute wasted being grumpy is much worse than a minute wasted from sleeping. I was well-trained as a child: why sit when you can sleep? Take every advantage of traveling: I have mastered the art of falling asleep before my head hits the pillow. The Portuguese party hard. You most likely are going to be left in the dust, so if you want to stand a fighting chance, come well rested.

10) Keep the troops happy.

                When one goes down, the others are soon to follow. Stem the “I have to pee”, “I’m hungry”, and “I’m tired” as soon as possible. It is far easier to prevent bad , and moods than to fix them. Remember, you are on vacation, act accordingly! Morale usually spreads quickly, and smiles go a long way. Keep morale up! Most importantly, always remember to stop and smell the roses…it’s not every day that you get opportunities like this!

All in all, our first outing was quite the learning experience. Lisbon was definitely a very beautiful city with a colorful history, though I’m sure some of the stories we heard might have been slightly skewed. We got a taste of the local cuisine, well-acquainted with the city, and a glimpse of the nightlife. I am quite thrilled to be able to say that we all made it back alive, not too much worse for the wear. Class tomorrow, however, might be another story. But for now, tchau!

El Mercado

This morning, we went to the most extravagant market I have ever seen. After meeting at the Cathedral that we visited last night, we walked a little farther into the old city, to an outdoor market in one of the plazas. Comparing it to a farmer’s market is a bit of an understatement. It wasn’t huge, but there were about 4 long aisles, each crammed with tiny stands overflowing with just about every kind of seafood, fruit, seasoning, and bread one can possibly think of. They say a picture is worth a thousand words, so to save y’all the time, here’s a few of the marketplace and the old town:

La Ciudad Antigua de Cádiz, España

Los Mariscos!

La Fruta

When we returned to the classroom, we learned how to make Gazpacho, a chilled vegetable soup. It was kind of similar to drinking V8 juice with pieces of cucumbers on top as a garnish. All in all, it was not a bad way to spend a morning.

I had a rather uneventful rest of the day, which was spent working on our two oral presentations, entrevista en el mercado, deciphering an article, and running on the beach. We are all looking forward to nuestro primera fin de semana, which it looks like will hopefully be spent in Lisboa, Portugál.

Las Aventuras Empiezan

                I officially realized that I have been extremely spoiled as I ran along the beach yesterday afternoon, completely unfazed by the familiar sticky, salty breeze in my hair as we ran towards the old part of town. Furthermore, the graceful, weathered structures that encircled the inland area were all too commonplace to me as well. Nevertheless, as my friend and I ran back home with the sun setting on our backs, I came upon the realization that this place is not all that different from my home, and there are certainly worst places one can spend a summer. I suppose that night was when I first began to get un sabor de España.

                After receiving a chuckle at the sight of our flushed faces, our host “mother”, Antonia, directed us to the couch, where a small table was laden with tortilla Española (I think that’s spelled correctly), which is like a quiche of sorts made from potatoes, cheese, and I’m not entirely sure what else, and the television was set to House, in Spanish of course. I proceeded to devour half of one tortilla, amidst the discussion of sangre and el corazón from the TV. I think that once Antonia quit worrying about trying to Americanize our meals, things started to get much, much better. The gray meat and hamburgers were promptly replaced with fish and the delicious tortilla, and although we still ate at 11:00 p.m., it was well worth waiting for.

                Today, we had normal morning classes, along with an afternoon session. At 18:00, we went back to the school for a tour of the old town. We rode a bus back across to where we had run yesterday, and explored the plazas for a couple hours with Marta, one of our teachers who lives here in Cádiz. After winding through narrow, twisting street laced with crooked cobblestones, we somehow popped out at a bar, where Dr. Labarca, our professor from Tech, was waiting for us. We then had what she called “solamente una merienda,” but the rest of us counted as dinner. We each got two bocadillos, or little sandwiches on a roll. I’m not sure why, but everything tastes better on a tiny French bread. I had a smoked salmon and, none other than my new favorite food, tortilla, on the bocadillos. Luckily, I could recognize the fillings in mine, because it turned out that another one had liver and jelly in it. We had a very dry vino tinto (red wine) to go with our bocadillos, and afterwards, were free to meander through the rest of the city.

                The maze of old streets proved quite challenging for us talented engineers, none of whom could make neither heads nor tails of la mapa. After mapping out several more restaurants and bars in the old town, we finally began the 45 minute walk back home. With the rhythmic waves keeping time, the walk seemed to fly by. We were soon at the bottom of the six flights to the apartment. Tomorrow, my class meets in the old town…a 45 minute walk once again. 7 a.m. is going to be here all too soon, so for now, İhasta luego!