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.