We Remember: 9/11/01

“Where were you when the world stopped turning on that September day?” asked Alan Jackson in a popular country song. Today, on the tenth anniversary of the 9/11 terrorist attacks on our nation, thousands of Americans echo this question. “I was on my way to meet so-and-so for breakfast.” “I was running errands for my wife.” “I slept through my alarm… thank the good Lord.” For my generation, the response is usually more along the lines of, “I was in Spanish class”, or “I was late for math.”

It’s a beautiful day, and I grumpily stomp my fourth-grade, loafer-clad feet to Ms. Clancey’s art class. Ms. Clancey hates me. She is the only teacher that I don’t get an A+ from. I am never excited for Tuesday mornings, because I know that I am about to get fussed at about the bit of glue oozing from a googly eye, or the tiny “click” not sounding just right when I put the caps back on the “shah-pee mah-kus”. I ascend the endless spiral steps in a line with the rest of Mrs. Weston’s fourth graders, and wait outside that stupid classroom, in the dingy hallway.

Class starts: some 8^th grader reads prayers and announcements on the intercom, Ms. Clancey tells us how inadequate we are, we receive our assignment, and scrabble for supplies, so as not to be left with the crumpled up papers at the bottom of the pile. It is a rather painless day, as Ms. Clancey sits at her desk grading, and I have scored a seat in the middle of the classroom, with a whole table of buffer between her and me. We are all bent over our latest projects, working with that intense fervor that the first month of school always brings.

A while later, the intercom crackles on: heads whip around, praying that someone is about to get called to the office. Sister Mary Victor’s voice crackles on, but we lose interest quickly, since we can’t understand a word she says. Ms. Clancey’s ears prick up, though. She interrogates the kids sitting closest to the junky old system, but they missed the announcement too. Finally, she sends Shailey and one of her friends down to the office to find out what was so important that the principal had to tell us.

Shailey and her escort finally saunter back in: “There was some kind of attack, but don’t worry… the president’s ok.” We go back to work, but Ms. Clancey doesn’t look quite write. The class passes in silence. Back in Mrs. Weston’s messy, animal-filled room, the TV is on: buildings, planes, and fire fill the screen. We finally realize that something is wrong when Tommy Kayworth and his three or four siblings are called to the office.

Mrs. Weston doesn’t say much on the subject, and the rest of the day flies by: kids leave left and right, and everyone desperately waits for their name to be called. We want to get out of there and get some answers. I remember getting in the minivan with my sister and our spoiled neighbors, the Whitlocks. I remember driving home, and watching the news all afternoon and evening. I remember growing increasingly terrified. I remember hiding in my bed and waiting for a plane to strike our house. Finally, when I can’t take it anymore, I head downstairs, to where Mom is watching the news: the horrible, ugly, fiery news.

I don’t remember what Mom says, but I imagine it went something along the lines of this:

First off, no one wants to bomb a little, insignificant house in St. Augustine, Florida. Second, you can’t lay scared to death in your bed and cry all day. That’s what the terrorists want. They want you to be terrified in your own home: they want to uproot your life, and not allow you to do things the way you want to. But we are a strong country, and we’ll get through this. You can’t be scared though, and we have to show those bad men that we are proud to be Americans, no matter what.

The news is now discussing Pearl Harbor, and the aftermath of the last major attack on our country. Amidst all the fear and uncertainty that was abounding, a little glimmer of hope suddenly springs forth: fly a flag. Come together as a country right now, and put out your flags. Such a simple action, but for some reason, the little spark in my belly suddenly begins to burn. We dig through the chaotic laundry room until we emerge with a little flag, no more than two feet tall, which we promptly stick in the flag holder, which I didn’t know even existed, on the side of the house. It has been raining and drizzling all afternoon, and as we put out our flag, it is just beginning to stop.

Standing on the screened porch, breathing in the fresh scent of rainy air, and looking at that battered little flag fluttering in the wind, I am no longer afraid. It suddenly seems to have clicked that it’s “fightin’ time”. Time to toughen up, and listen to all the aid announcements that will soon swamp us. Time to go through those tons of stuffed animals up in my room, and donate them to the kids up in New York, the ones who really need something to hold on to. Time to buckle down, and reach out to the strangers around us, who all share our same thoughts and worries. Time to carry on life in America: time to fly our flags.

"Que las tartas sean dulces, Cádiz!"

My last week in Cádiz has flown by, and it’s hard to believe it’s already Saturday! Cruz Roja has definitely kept me busy, and I got to work in several different programs, which was a wonderful experience. I am definitely going to miss my half hour walk to work on the beach every morning, and, of course, all of the wonderful people at Cruz Roja. Here is a brief overview of my weekly duties:

Monday: In the morning, I worked under a program called MEINAS (MEnores Inmigrantes No AcompañadoS). This program takes information from all of the unaccompanied minor immigrants who arrive here in Cádiz and works to help them find work, shelter, etc. For me, however, it meant more paperwork, as I only had to copy data about each immigrant and consolidate it into one paper. Most of the immigrants were Moroccans between 17 and 19 years old. After experiencing the stress of travelling around Europe all summer, I cannot even begin to imagine what it would take to leave your family and move to another country where you literally know no one. In the afternoon, I worked on math worksheets with the mayores.

Tuesday: I followed the same schedule as Monday: MEINAS in the morning for an hour, followed by the mayores, who were working on “fichas lectoescrituras” today.

Wednesday: I went to the pediatric ward in the Cádiz hospital today. I helped some other volunteers in the ludoteca, which is like a playroom for the sick kids. Kids are kids in any country, so there weren’t many surprises here.

Thursday: I sat in on Spanish classes for immigrants. There were only two students today: Mohammed, an elderly man from Mauritania and Alice, a middle-aged lady from Madagascar. This was probably one of my favorite days. Although it was difficult to understand Mohammed’s thick, Arabic accent, our teacher, Paco, translated between American- and Arabic-accented Spanish. Mohammed has only been attending classes for a week, and is trying to learn the Latin alphabet, after writing in Arabic for his entire life. I have to say, I admire his fortitude, because after being there for only a week he had begun to scratch out legible little figures, and was trying his hardest to write from left to right. Like most things in Spain, the two hours turned into more of a story time than a class. I learned a few phrases and Cádiz words from Paco, as well.

Friday: I went to my last taller de mayores in the morning, and returned at 8:00 pm to go out with UMES (Unidad Móvil de Emergencia Social). UMES brings food, drinks, blankets, hygienic products, etc. to the homeless people in Cádiz. Today, we were just delivering sandwiches and juice boxes. Our driver, another volunteer, and I loaded the bocatas up in the back of the van, and drove around town for the next three hours locating the homeless people, writing down their names and information, and handing out food and the occasional hygiene kit.

And thus concludes my Cruz Roja adventures here in Cádiz. Today will be spent straightening out my mess of a bus ticket and getting ready to head out tomorrow. It’s hard to believe that in just 48 hours, I will be packed into the plane in Madrid, and about to take off for America! After 11 weeks, my European adventure is finally drawing to a close. But for now, I’m off to enjoy my last full day in Cádiz. As a homeless guy so adequately said to me last night: “Que lo pases bien y que las tartas sean dulces.” (Have a good time and may the cakes be sweet!)

Cadiz, Otra Vez

                Here I am, back in Cádiz for the home stretch. After surviving our two, month-long programs with nearly seven hours of class each day, I don’t know what to do with myself and all of this extra time. Living in Spain without an “eccentric” professor and a host family that ignores your existence and feeds you hot dogs is another experience entirely. It feels more like I’m staying at my grandma’s beach house for vacation, except speaking Spanish all the time. Yesterday was the first time I went the entire day without speaking any English at all… quite the accomplishment.

                My new host family is an elderly couple, Gloria Oliva and her husband Paco. They are the nicest people, and thank goodness, like to make actual Spanish food. They have two grown children, Irené and Javier. Irené and her husband, Manolo, have two sons, Manuel (3) and Javi (7 mo.), and live in Cádiz as well, close to the Red Cross where I work. Irené is a social worker, and I’m not sure what Manolo does, but since they both work all morning, but Gloria stays at home and babysits her grandchildren. After I get home from work, I am always greeted by, “Toma! Toma el niño! Voy a preparar la comida.” I usually spend the next hour or so watching Javi while Gloria makes his lunch.

                In the morning, I work at la Cruz Roja Española, in el taller de mayores. This workshop works with elderly people who, for one reason or another, never had the opportunity to learn how to read and write. We work on worksheets (“fichas”) with them and play memory games some days. They all like to talk a lot, and I have definitely been getting lots of practice understanding the various thick, Andalucian accents. I have also been roped into working in “formación” for a few hours. The girl who is in charge of me,  águeda, describes formación as “un trabajo feo”. It essentially involves organizing the mounds of volunteer paperwork that la Cruz Roja is inundated with.

                Besides volunteering, babysitting, and eating Gloria’s delicious cooking, I have been spending the rest of my time either walking on the beach or sleeping. I guess I would probably be doing about the same things if I was back home in St. Augustine, so I’m not too beat up about staying these extra two weeks. Yesterday, there was another fiesta: my 3^rd in the month and a half I’ve been in Cádiz. Spaniards don’t miss an excuse to party. We walked down to a bar to meet Irené’s family and celebrate for a little while, and it was nearly impossible to plow through the crowd that had congregated. The beach was so packed, I could not see any sand beneath the covering of people. Every now and then, a collective groan or cheer would arise, following whatever was happening in the Carranza cup soccer game. The normally twenty minute walked took nearly twice that long. This year, August 6^th was the day to celebrate el Trofeo Carranza, and las barbacoas. Each year in Cádiz, there is a big soccer game for the Carranza cup. During the game, pretty much the entire city camps out on the beach and barbecues to celebrate summer. Usually, each family, work group, team, etc. has a barbacoa, and people spend the night following the soccer game, eating, and drinking.

                Gloria and I went to mass this morning, which was a little easier to follow since it was a fairly small church without much resonance. I actually understood which reading it was this week, even over the continual clack-clack-clack of dozens of fans cooling all the little old ladies. I ran out of books to read, and I’m not sure what I’m going to do at the beach now. Oh, the dilemmas! I now have exactly one week left in Spain, and then it will be back to reality.

La Aventura de Italia

This is being posted a little late, but this blog is from Tuesday, August 2^nd.

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                I have heard over and over again what a beautiful place Italy is… and after spending the past five days there, I can only agree wholeheartedly with these rumors. Incredible food, abounding history, a beautiful language, and cheerful people: what more can you ask for? I am so overwhelmed by the artistic prowess that I witnessed in the last few days that I am still trying to absorb all of the gorgeous sights that we visited. Here is a brief itinerary of everything that we managed to cram in since Thursday:

Thursday: We flew into the airport in Pisa, checked into our hostel, and received our first taste of Italy. It was like walking into a photograph: musicians in the streets, tastefully designed balconies filled with flowers, gelato on every corner, and, of course, the scent of sweet, salty air. We instantly set out to find the famed Leaning Tower of Pisa, and had no trouble in doing so. After taking our cliché holding-up-the-tower pictures, we discovered that you could still climb the tower. A couple hours and several euros later, I found myself standing in the very location where Galileo performed his legendary gravitational experiments.

Friday: We arrived in Florence by train. I couldn’t remember why exactly Florence was important, but I did know that I had read its name in my history books a thousand times. Luckily, our very own personal “tour guide”, Soleil, conveniently had her guide-to-Italy book. I was quickly reminded that Florence was considered the birthplace of the Italian renaissance. For the next two days, I found myself absolutely inundated with art.

Saturday: We went to lots of art museums, including the one housing Donatello’s “David”, the one which contains Michelangelo’s “David”, and the Uffizi. We also visited the Medici Chapel and the Cathedral de San Lorenzo.

Sunday: After another train ride through the picturesque Italian countryside, the “Eternal City” suddenly loomed just beyond the window. I cannot begin to count the number of times I have heard reference to Rome, whether it be for historical, artistic, or religious purposes. But not until I arrived there did I fully comprehend what an incredible influence this one city has had on the entire world throughout the ages. From the Roman Empire to Pope John Paul II, I still cannot fathom the events that the city has witnessed. Because we had arrived after museums and sites had either closed or become too engulfed in lines of tourists, we elected to do our “scenic tour” for the rest of the day. We visited the Trevi Fountain (I even spared a coin, because Rome is definitely somewhere I hope to return to), the Pantheon, and the Spanish Steps.

Monday: Around 6 a.m., we began our search for the Vatican. We were the second group in line once we arrived there at 7. Immediately after entering, I bee-lined for the Sistine Chapel. As I walked through the door, my jaw fell open, and remained that way until I exited. It was the most spectacular series of paintings I have ever seen. In all honesty, I expected Michelangelo’s “Genesis” to hold the spotlight. But as I stared at the scenes which covered every square inch of the lofty room, it stood out no more than any other scene; such was the level of extravagancy. Afterwards, we visited the Vatican museum, which contained several fascinating exhibits, my personal favorite of which consisted of donations from Australian aborigines to their “Papa” in Rome. After staring in awe at all of the wonders of the Vatican for a couple of hours, we briefly toured St. Peter’s Basilica, where we saw the original Pietà, as well as the final resting place of Pope John Paul II. Although I have seen dozens of cathedrals during my months in Spain, this one was different. Naturally, it was much more historically and artistically rich, but beyond that, this actually felt like a church, a connection to my own life. As our group roamed around the walls, I noticed a door to the side with a curtain and a guard. Naturally, everyone was curious until they found out that it was “only a room for prayer”. Hoping to atone for my lack of mass attendance the day before, I entered the room. It was filled with gold accents, and exquisitely decorated, but this seemed to go unnoticed by its inhabitants. Every head in there was bent, with eyes squeezed shut, hands clenched, and lips twitching in silent prayer. It was an overwhelming experience, to be here, surrounded by all of these other people who were deep in prayer, and feet away from the head of our church. I fell to my knees and joined them, and remained there for the rest of our visit. After the Vatican, we took the metro to the Coliseum. I only had time to see the outside of it before heading for the airport, and beginning the long journey back to Madrid and then Cadiz.

                I generally have a very short attention span, and don’t usually appreciate art all that much. Cádiz was full of old things, but it always seemed like St. Augustine could beat it any day. And Madrid was just a little too urbanized for me. But for some reason, the history and art from Italy completely struck me, and I feel like I could spend weeks learning about it and never get bored. For some reason, I never grew jaded towards the beautiful Florentine and Roman art and architecture, the brainchildren of so many great names. I guess before Italy, I never really saw a point to art. It just seemed to me like a collection of a bunch of dead people’s talents. And of course, there was always that modern art piece that makes you think, “A two-year-old could do that!” As I wandered through room after room of priceless art in Florence, however, I stumbled upon a painting of yet another woman, this time accompanied by two grimacing little devil things, one of which poked its tongue through a contorted smile. I wanted to laugh at the absurd creature, but held it in, thinking this inappropriate for an art collection so extravagant. Moments later, however, another couple entered, and burst out laughing. It was then that I had my revelation.

                Art is meant to make people feel. It is supposed to solicit an emotional response that does not have to be cultivated and first worked through the brain’s conscious regions. It should not be something that people are forced to “interpret” and write volumes about. And it most certainly was not intended to being confined to just painting, sculpting, drawing, etc. I can honestly say that I have felt so much more from driving down a dirt road listening to country music in a beat up truck than I will ever feel from looking at priceless modern art in La Reina Sofia museum, but I guess that’s ok. People are not the same, and obviously our responses to certain stimuli aren’t going to be the same. So whether you are a dancer, poet, blogger, or famous Italian Renaissance painter, I am sure that somewhere out there, there is someone who would like to thank you for your invaluable contributions to the artistic community, and thank you for making us feel.

La Ultima Blog de Madrid!

                Well, my friends and family, here is my last blog from Madrid! I spent the week making thousands of baby notecards, until I got tired of ripping up my index cards, and resigned to make them online, which is far less satisfying. Anyways, thousands of summary sheets, ripped baby notecards, and online notecards later, today was finally exam day. And after five hours and three exams, our program is finally almost done. There is one essay that is standing between me and freedom. I will be departing for Italy tomorrow morning and returning to Cádiz on Tuesday to work at the Red Cross. I will admit to being slightly nervous about being left in Europe for two weeks by myself, but hopefully my horribly accented Spanish will improve. Also, hopefully my writing will go back to sounding grammatically correct, and hopefully I don’t adapt Italian grammar in the meantime. So for now, ciao bella and viva Italia!

La Plaza de los Toros

                Modern day Spain may not exactly live up to the romanticized expectations of ornate monarchies, suave accents, charming people, and paella galore, but there is one uniquely Spanish experience that overwhelmed my expectations magnanimously: the bullfights. While studying for my final exams this afternoon, my roommate Emily informed me that we would be going to a bullfight in an hour and a half. I halfheartedly argued against it, not wanting to do any more damage to my euro-less bank account, but eventually gave in without too much arm twisting. The spectacle that ensued was undoubtedly the product of the most well-spent five euros of this trip.

                After emerging from the metro, we turned around and I had to catch my breath as the famed Madrilenian Plaza de los Toros loomed before me. As my eyes gradually made their way to ground-level, we were daunted by the enormous, snaking line of people. However, about ten minutes later, we found that the line seemed to disintegrate, and within half an hour we had our tickets. As we made our way to our seats, the electrically charged air was filled with the shouts of venders selling food, souvenirs, and seat cushions. We wandered through the tunnel, and I found myself staring at hundreds of seats rising from the dirt ring. It was like a Jags game and Monster Jam combined, and I was instantly enamored.

                Like in Pamplona, I was somewhat surprised to see the methodic manner with which the bullfight unfolded. There were three torreros, six toros, and several other workers with different rolls who made appearances throughout the evening. I’m not sure of the official terminology of all parties involved, but in general, the structure of each round was as follows:

First, three or four men bedazzled with sparkling costumes and carrying crimson and gold banderas entered the ring, preceded by a blast of trumpets from a small band in the stands. These men would hide behind small portions of wall, and pop out to taunt the bull, resulting in the bulls prancing agitatedly around the ring, tails up and heads bent forward. After about five or so minutes of this, the next crew came in. This included two armor-clad, rider-bound, blindfolded horses, as well as about three men who carried sharp palos. The bull tended to charge at one of the unsuspecting horses first. When this was the case, they received a sharp jab from the rider, who used a long spear-like stick that only penetrated about three inches. This was usually not sufficient to stop the attack, and so the “distracters” would try to draw the bull away. Eventually, the three men would tackle their tasks, running at the bull and driving the barbed sticks into the fleshy hump on the bull’s thick neck. After this segment, the bull careened about, with the six colorful sticks dangling from its back. Only then would the actual bull-fighter enter and finish the job.

                After each fighter has taken on his two bulls, which took about two and a half hours after accounting for raking the ring between rounds and the bulls that got injured early on and got disqualified, it was all over. As the last bull was dragged off by decorated, jingling donkeys, a rented seat cushion flew through the air and settled in the dust. Hundreds more followed suit. I found this a rather odd tradition, but come on… who hasn’t wanted to fling something from a stadium seat? After tossing a few leftover cushions, we exited the stadium and joined the throng flooding towards the metro.

                Bull fights are definitely not for the feint of stomach, but if one can manage to steel his or herself long enough, I strongly advise making an effort to witness one of these fantastic man-vs.-beast phenomena. I cannot even begin to describe the excitement and adrenaline that coursed through the crowd, even for the young and inexperienced bullfighters that we had been watching. In the meantime, keep an eye out for the potentially upcoming Georgia version of this sport… straight from some crazy man’s farm in Swainsboro.

Plaza de Toros

The Bull Ring!

Tiring Out the Bull

The horses took quite a beating...

El Torero

HP7

                I would like to dedicate this entry to someone who has influenced me tremendously and grown up with me throughout the years: Harry Potter. I remember well the day that I learned about the original book which would soon grow into a culture. I was sitting on our big, flowery, yellow couch when my mom came through the front door. I was in first grade, and so little that I remember my feet stuck off over the edge. That afternoon, I was first introduced to the most magical (no pun intended) cultural and literary experience of my young life. Now, nearly twelve years later, I sit in shock, in a residence in Spain, after having witnessed the culmination that was the second part of the seventh and final movie.

                Millions followed the series simply because everyone else was: because it was a cool story with wizards written in a way that everyone could enjoy. But for some of us, Harry Potter means so much more. I remember staying up until midnight on the night of my eleventh birthday, not knowing just quite what to expect. I remember not wanting to walk upstairs alone after finishing the second book with my family because I was convinced a basilisk would come slithering around the corner. I remember dressing up as Harry for Halloween long ago, and being asked over and over again, “You’re supposed to be who?”

                I cannot quite put my finger on what it was that set J.K. Rowling’s masterpiece miles above all other children’s’ literature. Maybe it had to do with the possibilities, and the idea that there could be a whole ‘nother world, just beyond our knowledge, that sometimes crept into our awareness, only to be reasoned away. Maybe it was the heroism: a baby could save an entire people? And a fourteen-year-old could escape the deadly spells of the “Most Powerful Dark Wizard of our time”? Maybe it was the suspense… when else was I allowed, as en elementary schooler, to dress up and go out at midnight to get a BOOK?! Or maybe it was simply the camaraderie. I know I speak for more than myself when I say that sometimes it was like having an extra set of classmates, a whole different group of friends, who were growing and changing just as we were.

                But however fantastical the tale may seem, I think one of the most unique characteristics of Rowling’s writing is her ability to connect her readers not only with her own world but with reality. The Harry Potter series touches on everything from the obnoxious kid in the class to bravery in all sorts of controversy to the overwhelming fear of death. In many ways, it has changed the way that we think of these things, especially to an audience that included such impressionable youth. I commend Rowling endlessly for how she has tackled such a challenge. And of course, I will be forever grateful for some of her unforgettable quotes, her ability to unite a world, and the never-ceasing reminder to be grateful for what we have: “Don’t pity the dead, pity the living. But most of all, pity those who live without love.”

Las Fiestas de San Fermínes

Fun fact of the day: We went on another class visit, this time to el Congreso Español in Madrid. We entered through the visitors’ entrance, which was located next to the actual one which is used by the politicians. The official entrance is called La Puerta de los Leones, and is guarded by two large, stone lions. Oddly similar to the Bridge of Lions back home!

In other news, July 7^th through July 14^th marks the annual celebration of the festival of San Fermín, and the famed Running of the Bulls. While word of this spectacle may have spread far and wide, there is certainly much more to the event than I would ever have thought. Last weekend, I ventured north to Pamplona to experience the festivities that Spain is so well-known for.

Because all of the hostels and hotels in Pamplona are usually booked full during this time of the year, it is a good idea to just stop by Pamplona for the day. We caught a bus that arrived around 1 a.m., which gave us some time to figure out how to navigate the city prior to el encierro, the actual race which is held at 8 a.m. every morning during that week. As soon I stepped out of the train station, I was greeted by a blast of chilly air and a sea of white suits speckled with red, from both the scarves and gallons of sangria that were being spilled and/or consumed. Every night of San Fermín is essentially a big party, and all of the temporarily homeless celebrators fill the streets until dawn. We joined the throng of people, and with surprising ease soon found ourselves in a little alley overlooking a tacky fair. I was fairly certain we had been led astray until we looked over the rail and saw a guard standing near the gates to the pen where four large toros and several smaller castrated bulls shuffled around, all complete with astas, or horns. We followed the road that the pen would open onto for the 900 m of the race until we reached the Plaza de los Toros. Although we couldn’t figure out how to go in, the plaza is basically a large bull ring encircled by stadium style seating. I was surprised to see how open the course was. It weaved through the narrow, cobblestone streets, below the balconies that I had seen in all of the YouTube movies on the subject, and past the boarded-up store windows. It took place on an ordinary street, with alleys between buildings and spilled into the square in front of the Plaza. The next morning, however, workers would show up bright and early to secure the area with sturdy board fences and posts that went up with the ease of a volleyball net. Once we had a strategy to actually be able to view the race, the shoulder to shoulder crowds that packed the city and the frigid night air eventually drove us inside. We found a cafe called “The Palacio” which was kind of off the beaten path and went in. The back of it, away from the door, was sheltered enough to be slightly warmer, and already inhabited by a couple sleeping on a table and a woman passed out, sangria still in hand. We sat in a corner to wait for the sun to peek over the horizon.

When 6:30 rolled around, we got up and headed back out to the street. We arrived just as the workers were passing by with the plank fences. With impeccable timing, we quickly climbed the fences and claimed a spot. For the next hour and a half, I stubbornly sat on the fence line, refusing to be budged by the drunken Spanish women who were encroaching from one side. As the sun climbed higher, we watched, itching with anticipation, as a street sweeper cleared the broken glass from the way, uniformed officers shooed stragglers out of the fences, and the Red Cross practiced their stretcher drills. As people began to fill the balconies, climb light posts, and perch on street lights, the last few minutes crawled by agonizingly slow. Hundreds of people dressed all in white now packed the alleyway, either bouncing and stretching or staring around in a daze. At long last, a shot was heard in the distance, and the sea began to swirl.

About two minutes later, screams and shouts could be heard from behind the buildings, where even more people began to pour out, and the whole mass of them began to lurch toward the plaza. Suddenly, bourn amongst the people like a Charolaise-colored ship, the first bull trotted nonchalantly by. People dove out of its way as it began to pick up speed and lower its head in response to the increased density. Then they were flying. More bulls, more people frenziedly charged by as the spectators jumped into the border zone to get a better view. It was incredible. I am not sure how man and bull passed by us so quickly and in one piece, but in less than 5 minutes, the pastores hopped by, poles in hand, on the lookout for slow or confused leftover bulls.

We had a “what now?” moment, and eventually joined the adrenaline-charged crowd as the poured back into the city, on the hunt for breakfast. We returned to the café, which was now brimming with people, and got chocolate con churros for breakfast, before staggering back out into a different square. By 9, the place was filled with people sleeping on benches, curbs, tables, and wherever else they could find, while cleaner and more rested others strode between them, carrying on their lives as though nothing was different. However, even these people still wore the white and red trajes de pamplonica. We decided to fully submerge ourselves in the culture, and joined the sleeping curb dwellers.

Later that day, when we finally stirred from our hibernation, we caught a bus to Barcelona. We stayed there for a day, wandered around the city, saw the Gaudi stuff, and went to the beach. Spain is full of all kinds of culture and history, but Gaudi is by far the most impressive artist that I have seen. His buildings are truly incredible. Park Güell was absolutely astounding. Gaudi has a very elaborate and modern style, and the park was filled with all kinds of colors. Some of the buildings almost resemble a Dr. Seuss book, and the top of the park overlooks the city of Barcelona all the way to the ocean. La Sagrada Familia, the famous cathedral in Barcelona, was also designed by Gaudi. The cathedral is so meticulously designed that it is still under construction because funding for the project ran out. We didn’t get to go inside, but just seeing it from the metro stop was completely breathtaking. I could most definitely have spent more time in Barcelona, which, given the overdose of art and cathedrals that I am experiencing, should tell you something.

The rest of this week has been more long days of school, complete with a day of three tests. We are also officially halfway through the Madrid LBAT. Tomorrow we leave to go to Andalucía for another class weekend trip. My roommate and I have devoured another bag of corn nuts, which we have successfully acquired in Spain. Besides that, my Spanish festival count is now up to three. What an incredible culture!

The Bull Pen

El Encierro!

Some of the Architecture of Park Guell

La Sagrada Familia

El Cuatro de Julio

                With morning and afternoon classes taking up nearly all of our days, it’s been a rather uneventful first week here in Madrid. To give y’all a brief summary (since I have received complaints about my loquaciousness): We have class from 9:00-2:10, then from 4:00-6:00 most days, and sometimes we have visitas to places like el barrio and more mercados. Saturday, we took a class day trip to Toledo, and Sunday I went to church again (I understood un poco más!) and to the Reina Sofia. Yesterday and today, was mostly just more class, with the exception of what Fourth of July festivities we could muster in a country that doesn’t care all that much. We represented America well. And now, I present the unabridged version.

                Tired as I am of sightseeing, Toledo was easily one of the most interesting cities that we have taken a class trip to. Naturally, we had to listen about all of the Arabic influence and stuff all over again, but besides that, it was a very different place. The nearby hills were covered in brush, with various sprawling homes breaking up the sandy colored rocks and muddy river that flowed below. The low buildings that lined the streets seemed far less tightly packed than normal, and somehow less imposing. I think I am slightly biased towards Toledo, also, because for the first time since being here, we got to visit a museum that was actually interesting. After stealthily departing from the group after yet another cathedral, we paid a visit to el museo de los instrumentos de tortura. It was fascinating to see what kind of devices they came up with back in the days of the Spanish Inquisition, and rather ironic to go from the grand cathedral to this somewhat abysmal little tribute.

                The Reina Sofia is a famous art museum located in the heart of Madrid, and that was about all I knew about it. Nevertheless, I got dragged along by my eccentric art-loving roommate. I felt increasingly uncultured as I wandered through the floor of Picasso, completely unable to appreciate the weird toothed horses and angry-looking abstract women. But as we started ascending through the museum (via glass elevator) things got much more entertaining. The other floors had old, captivating photographs that told novels about life in the old days, along with old movies, and various sculpture things that looked like something we would have to draft in AutoCAD class. These alternative forms of art did well to break up the spew of strange forms and colors that someone for some reason decided were worth something. And, of course, the best part of the museum was the Wheel of Pleasure, which after our adventure the previous day sounded like some sort of facetious name for a torture device. The Wheel of Pleasure was a large circle of twelve or so bowls, each filled with water colored one of the four primary colors and accompanied by a small eye dropper. We stared at it for a while, unsure of what to do, until a lady bustled by us, knelt beside a bowl, dropped a few drops on the back of her hand, and tasted it. Naturally, we all drank Wheel of Pleasure juice for the next ten minutes. The water was flavored different flavors, of which I couldn’t identify accurately. A museum employee told us something along the lines of, “They are not what they seem, eh?” in Spanish. Modern art may not be my thing, but I certainly enjoyed that particular medium.

                When the Fourth of July finally rolled around, we all started to realize how homesick we were. While we stared wistfully at pictures filled with red, white, and blue and watched as everyone back home updated their plans for the evening, matters just got worse. Most of us here in Spain finally resolved to go out, find American food, and “act like the loud Americans we are”. Of course, we ended up at the Hard Rock, dropping 15 € for a hamburger without a second thought. It was potentially the best Hickory barbecue bacon cheeseburger that I have ever partaken in, and I devoured the entire thing. Every passerby who walked in was greeted by, “American?!”, and if the answer was an affirmative, hoots and hollers ensued, as we tried to spread our American spirit to all corners of the globe. It’s so strange how much absence makes the heart grow fonder: this Fourth of July was probably the most patriotic I have ever felt, despite the fact that we are in a foreign land where no one cares a bit about the birth of our nation. And of course, we’ve all started to make our lists of what we’re going to do as soon as our prospective planes land. But we still have quite a few weeks until then. In the meantime, I will be preparing to go witness the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona and explore Barcelona. İViva San Fermín! İGora San Fermín!

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.