Los han acabado

Yay, midterms are done and done. Finished my last (and hardest and longest) one today. I'm not worrying too much at this point, I don't think I'll have too much of a problem with them. Two papers done too. And finished tutoring (and was payed) for the week. Fifty euros in the pocket and a three day weekend...

And so as the heat goes so does my uneasiness and fatigue of Spain. I always hear people complaining about seasonal affective disorder in winter, how it's always so cold, you're always inside, and it's always so dark. Pfft, I say. I have seasonal affective disorder in the summer months. It's finally cold here, for more than just the morning or night. The past two days have been cold, rainy, windy, nearly storming. And I've loved every minute of it. 

There's this energy in the cold wind blowing that flows all throughout my body. I become enlivened. I'm out walking about town in sweaters and scarves and sipping coffee and huddling up in cafés (ok, Starbucks...), listening to music that just fits so well with this environment. The streets are nearly empty, they fear the cold here. Brown leaves on the ground, blowing across the streets and sidewalks, across the plazas. No colored leaves though, they're all still green, which is very disappointing. 

I'm getting more content the colder it gets out here. Apparently it's not usually this cold this fast, nor this rainy. Perhaps Spain knew I was coming and is trying to make me feel more at home. It's already snowing up in northern Spain. Maybe we'll get some 'round Alcalá.

Exámenes

So midterms are this week.

And just like that, the reality slowly seeps in (as it should have two months ago) that I'm here to study in a university. The notion seems crazy, I know. I'm in Spain for nine months you would think that I should be learning via experience and not having to worry about homework, tests, and papers. And yet I must. Sure, it's probably less of a deal than at Madison. But then again, at Madison it didn't seem like a big deal at the time. Well, of course before the exams last year I was freaking out, thinking they'd be really hard, then studying...to an extent. But that's how it's always been with me. I'd barely study for an exam in high school and do well on it, wondering what everyone was fretting for before. The same could be said about Columbia, but let's not kid ourselves, that place was a joke and a half. 

Though the argument could be made that by thinking an exam would be bad and studying more for it (and by more, an extra hour!), I better prepared myself for the exam, thus making it seem easy. If I hadn't worried and did some extra studying who knows if I would have done as well or had the test seem as easy?

And then there's the stories I've been told by everyone who has studies abroad. It's very easy, they'd say. There's no homework, there's maybe a paper or two and a final test which isn't a really big deal. I've found this out to be a flat out lie, at least concerning the Alcalá program. While I'm sure that in Valladolid there was virtually no homework, there is not a day where I do not have at least one bit of (mostly busy) work in at least one class.

The mentality to sit down at a desk and focus on the book in front of you is not present for me. Even in Madison it was hard since there was so much going on, but even the biggest procrastinators and homework abusers eventually sat down in the study den and worked, for hours on end usually. There is no study den here where we get together and do homework, albeit slowly and with many interruptions for conversation and hijinks. No. There isn't even a desk in my house for me to work at, which was supposed to be a requirement of the host family. No, I have a "cheat the system" make-shift pullout desk. It is part of the closeting, it swings down on very unstable pulleys and doesn't even leave room for me to sit down before I'm on the bed. Yes, I could sit on the bed, I suppose, but where's the back support? Oh wait, I couldn't even do that. The desk would break if I even put a book on it, would hate to think what would happen if I rested my arms on it while furiously scribbling out a paper. Or typing on my laptop. 

So working at home is out. Starbucks seems to be the best option as the library is too quite for it's own good, and spoken English and the fact that you're American could get you in trouble just for being there. We have our own study area, they'd tell us, down in the basement. An area completely unconducive (which I've learned is not a word, but screw it, I'm a pioneer, start using it!) to studying or getting anything done. For me, at least. A strict quite rule, horribly pale white and barren walls, sixteen chairs maybe down a line on a long table. In a hallway. 

So Starbucks it is. Thankfully Spaniards generally hate Starbucks (save for the younger generation) so anytime between noon and five it's completely devoid of anyone upstairs. And their coffee is the only coffee in Spain that has caffeine in it, or so it would seem. As I've mentioned before, all the espresso and café solos I can get in any regular bar do nothing for me, but give me a grande or venti black coffee from Starbucks and I'm shaking uncontrollably and actually getting work done. And the American jazz and blues music on the speakers doesn't hurt. And the comfortable seating and big table space. And the fact you can talk and work with your study buddies. 

So there is one place I can actually get work done in Spain. I'm heading there after I write this, actually. Still leaves the questions of do I have the motivation to get work done in a place so beautiful and lively as Spain. Not that Madison or Chicago weren't lively. But there I felt like I was actually living, you know, at home. There I had fun but also had to do work, as is expected when you're at home. Spain, for me, is still that fun vacation place, the cool old European country with plenty of ancient corridors and buildings to explore. Food to eat and wine to drink. I just need to realize that I am living here, and for the next--what is it now? 7 months?-- this is my home and I better damn get used to it and do work.

I have two compositions due this week and an exam I have tomorrow. Whether or not I'll actually study for it remains to be seen. I'm sure I'll put in an hour--okay half hour--and be all the wiser for it tomorrow. 

La aventura extremeña :: 3º parte :: Trujillo

Sunday morning brought us, the tired bunch we were from late night festivities on a long Saturday, on a short bus ride to Trujillo. What is in Trujillo? Well, an old town (shock!), a cathedral (surprise!), and a castle (¡no me digas!). An a pretty cool Plaza Mayor that is supposed to be traffic free but some ingenious tour bus driver decided to break free from the chains of signs stating "No entrar" and the like and just barged right into the center of the square and let off a busload of old people tourists-- the worst kind. 

We walked through the tiny streets of the old part of town, constantly uphill, stopping to have certain buildings pointed out to us. If I recall correctly and this was the right city (checking my photos, yes I'm right) Francisco Pizarro's house is still standing. That's right, the man that viciously conquered the Incas lived in Trujillo. Now he has two cats perching on his stoop outside.

We headed up, up, up! Up til we reached the absolute highest point in Trujillo, which reminded me a lot of Toledo in how the old part of the city, walled in and all, was built on a hill...so when you get to the top you have an absolutely stunning and majestic view of the city, town, and countryside surrounding for miles (or kilometers!). It also helps when at the top of this ice cream birthday cake of wonder is a castle piercing into the sky. A castle you can romp around in, running from wall to wall, from tower to tower and almost falling over the edge between the cracks in the stone walls. Be warned, afraid of heights? -- the castle at Trujillo is not for you. Oh heck, just go up there anyways, it's such a beautiful sight -- just hold on. There was no singular point where I could view everything at one point (and subsequently get a 360º panorama -- boo), so I ended up literally running around on top of the castle to all parts and sorts of towers trying to see as much as I could. On one side, the old town winding down to Plaza Mayor and the sprawling city behind it, from there the freeway leading us back to Madrid, and even further a mountain thrusting itself up in the horizon. 

The other side -- to the left -- a large field of solar panels soaking up the noon day sun, cattle on a ranch swaggering around a desolate field containing one, maybe two, trees. And sheep, and goats, and more. Vultures circling around a herd of cows further on in the horizon, perhaps there laid a dead one-- after all, after a while I didn't see the vultures in the sky anymore. And everywhere, billowy white clouds in the sky, casting their gigantic shadows over large sections of the land set out before my eyes. One of those rare moments where that shadow you always feel move over head when a cloud covers the sun -- you actually get to see what it looks like from afar and above. There is the cloud, there the sun high up in the blue sky and below them both a large mass of darkness. The cloud slowly blows past and the farmers tending their herd below bask again in the sunlight, looking up and seeing light and looking around and seeing golden fields -- never knowing if only they were covered up in that shadow cast by the clouds nor how far it reached nor who observed this minutiae of nature.

Then we had lunch. Not our normal menú del día, though we're sure that's what we wanted. The problem with such a smaller, largely tourist town is that eating anywhere is expensive. Expensive at least for us students on a budget. We headed down to the new town and found one of the few bars that was open. No menú but we'll suffice and sit down anyways, taking up their whole comedor. Remember, Extremadura -- best jamón in the world. Okay, now what should I order? A bocadillo de jamón ibérico? Bingo. Oh, kinda hungry, so toss in a boca de tortilla con atún. Never had it before, gotta try something new, right?

The jamón came first and I was beyond pleased and delighted. I was in floating off my chair from the ecstasy produced by this ethereal ham. Ham. Yes, the meat I absolutely hate and cannot eat in the States brings me to such great heights and states of being in Spain. What a wonderful world. The beautiful thing about jamón ibérico is that it is so damn good, sorry -- great, that it needs nothing else. It's not like the deli meat you get in America, it doesn't need mayonnaise, nor cheese, nor lettuce, nor mustard, nor pepper, nor oregano, nor butter. No, all you need with jamón ibérico is jamón ibérico. Place that on quality bread and you have one of the best sandwiches you could ever possibly have. That's what I had. Too bad I still had a boca de tortilla con atún coming. Should have eaten that one first. 

We hopped back on the bus and headed (home) to Alcalá. We arrived too early for me to justify going back home, still living off the high of the weekend. I hate those bus rides back home since they're always filled with uneasiness and anxiety. I don't want the journey to end. Even the ride I enjoy. I wish it took longer to get to Alcalá from Trujillo but it doesn't. So I get back, chilled for a while in the plaza and headed home. Defeated. The last CIEE group trip.

La aventura extremeña :: 2º parte :: Mérida y Cáceres

As I write this the first half of the photos from Extremadura are being uploaded, so although I don't have photos to put into the post, by the time you're done reading this there should be over one hundred new photos on Flickr...so enjoy!

Saturday morning brought us to Mérida, an old Roman town about half an hour south of Cáceres. The sun beat down unrelentlessly on my back, the argyle sweater I came equipped with was quickly packed away as I was sweating with only a shirt on, dying in the sun my eyes were forced shut by the painful light. First up was the Roman amphitheater where gladiators used to fight each other and animals too, as we all saw in Gladiator. If you remember the first fights with Maximus, that's more of the size of the amphitheater in Mérida is. Definitely no Colosseum, but no one was expecting that. Anytime I come across ancient Roman ruins I am left speechless. The one saving grace from my Italian voyage last year was Rome, the Forum, the Colosseum, Palatine Hill, the Parthenon...all of it, I was completely in awe, sighting it and soaking it in, absorbing it all throughout my body and soul -- I melted in the presence of such history -- long gone glories of emperors and armies and gladiators, plebeians and senators, artists, philosophers and playwrights. How many people, I would always ask, have been here before me? How many men died in this spot, how much blood was spilled? What ideas were pondered and expounded on where I am standing right now? How old is this rock I am touching and who else has touched it and when? 

The Roman Empire has always been a subject of great interest to me and when I try to think of why, I don't know what to say...I am just simple floored -- marveled -- each time I am at some ancient ruins, standing in piles of rocks, in the middle of a amphitheater where 2,000 years ago there probably was blood being spilled right there where my shoes dug into the dirt. I walked slowly around the circumference, losing track of the rest of the group at times. Just walking slowly, observing and feeling all I could take in.

Right next to the amphitheater was the regular theater...and by regular I don't mean some lame place to watch a movie or play. I remember learning about Roman style outdoor theaters last year in Theatre 120 and that added so much more to the experience. There's one thing to learn and see pictures on a powerpoint in a big lecture hall with poor lighting, reading the plays that were preformed there...and then there's that energy you get by sitting in the standings staring down at this stage and warping back 2,000 years in your mind, being in the audience of a Roman comedy, with the chorus down in the center and the deus ex machina coming in from off stage at the last moment. To see those pillars reach up for the sky and clouds, to shout from center stage and have your voice carried throughout the whole venue...there's something otherworldly about these piles of marbles and rocks.

And then the remains of an aristocrat's villa. No walls really left, just tiles on the ground which ended up being pretty cool and intricate. The cyprus trees all the paths, I almost felt like I was back in Rome. Beautiful clouds covered the skies. 

Next was a lunch of little importance, your typical menú del día in some oh so typical Spanish comedor. The only notable part of the meal, besides the table conversation which is always delightful, was my primer plato of champioñes con jamón (mushrooms with ham). I believe the first time I've had mushrooms in Spain. The wine was cheap, cheaper than usual -- had a plastic top and didn't say where it was produced, just where it was bottled. Unacceptable. 

After lunch we visited the Roman museum which was much less exciting than the actual ruins. Here the cool artifacts of greatness and glory long past was robbed from it's resting places and thrown chaotically into a giant high ceilinged museum. Lopped off statue after lopped off statue, and nothing like a David laying around -- some cool mosaic pieces though and a bunch of rusted copper coins.

Back on the bus but just a short time down the road we stopped in a completely empty park bordering a river in Mérida. Oh yeah, and there were the remains of a Roman aqueduct there. Which has to be one of the coolest sites I've ever seen with my horribly deformed eyes. Pushing my glasses up and sticking that camera in my face, I snapped away eagerly then took a breather to truly absorb the glory that laid in front of me. A Roman aqueduct, incredibly old, incredibly well constructed, still standing and beautiful, a perfect example of the greatness and glory of Rome and their ingenious engineering and architectural skills. I wonder if at the time people walking beneath the aqueduct in Mérida were as in awe of it as I am now. If they quite realized how special of an achievement it was. It towers above me, I am small at it's feet...the rocks still fierce, 2,000 years after being placed in their immoveable spots, I try climbing and my fingers are cut by their jagged edges. The sun casts long, drawn out shadows into the deep green grass that is only occupied by my wandering dreams of a world and civilization long lost to time and infinity. Too soon I'm called back to the bus and I reluctantly leave, slowly, absorbing the last bits of history as much as I can as I head back to the bus, back to society and back to the year 2008.

Headed back to Cáceres to the hotel, lounged around and napped, everyone, because we were all quite exhausted from the Roman-filled day. After a group nap we decided to get our first pizza in Spain from Telepizza. It's just like any other cheap American fast food pizza chain, except instead of being cheap it's like 11€ for a medium pizza. Did taste very good though. I ordered pepperoni and it came with pepperoni and what appeared to be our sausage as well...which is apparently pepperoni as well in Spain. Some headed out, however a decent size of us staying in in our boys' room and chatted, finished off a bottle we had left over from the previous night. Fun chats and fun times until the wee hours of the morning, staying up later than we probably would have wished unwisely considering when he had to wake, but having such a great time in the moment that nothing really mattered and sleep was a far off and abstract thought. 

La aventura extremeña :: 1º parte :: Cáceres

Since it's still fresh in my mind I'll forgo the Día de Cervantes post and write about this past weekend in Extremadura. 

I remember way back in Mrs. Goecke's Surprising Spain class how, when we were learning about all of the comunidades autonomas, we more or less just skipped over Extremadura because even the people living there don't like it, or at least we were told. After all, extremadura means "extremely hard." It's a very dry and flat region, not lush and green like Asturias. There's not much for agriculture there save for ganadería (the English word is escaping me...but basically cows and pigs and animal farming). So on the very short bus ride there from Alcalá, most of the time spent looking out the window, instead of Los Picos as we saw in Asturias, our eyes were met with flat, flat lands, lots of dirt, sparse trees, and plenty of sheep, pigs, cows, and horses. And the occasional vineyard (Badajoz, a region of Extremadura, has a bit of wine fame too, though not quite like La Rioja or Ribera del Duero).

It was like driving through the American West. But I was entertained. I loved seeing fields of cows just sitting there with vultures circling overhead and the gorgeous clouds covering the sky. Oh, and lots of ganadería does mean one important thing for the Epicurean such as myself: some of the best meat in the world. The highest quality and most expensive jamón ibérico in Spain (which is the only place there is jamón ibérico produced) is from Extremadura. So score one for my meals, which consisted of anything that contained jamón. Cheese is also pretty famous around there, so considering the two trips we took this semester with CIEE, I got pretty lucky in going to regions famous for delicious foods (next semester, not so promising: Sevilla/Cordoba and León). 

So Friday we headed out to Extremadura and the bus ride was only about three and a half hours, much shorter than the Asturian adventure. We arrived in Cáceres about noon thirty to our formerly-a-palace-now-probably-haunted Hotel Ibería, right off of Plaza Mayor. We toured the old, walled-in section of town. I was very pleased-- I always love the old European towns where it's nearly impossible to drive a car anywhere and half the roads no one even bothers trying, so it's just pedestrians walking between all these historic and beautiful buildings (occasionally containing anti-Nazi or anti-government graffiti--how fun!). 

I don't know if I'm dumb or what, but it just took me til this past Friday to come upon a realization that I believe you'll all go "no shit Kyle" when I explain this. I was sitting there in what used to be a synagogue now turned church in the old Jewish quarter of Cáceres when it dawned on me -- how much of history, how much of humanity has been shaped by religion. Fausto (our guide) was talking about how the Muslims controlled Cáceres for a while, then the Jews were there in their own little quarter, then the Christians came in and kicked everyone else out. How there's these huge churches and cathedrals and what used to be mosques and synagogues now turned churches everywhere in Spain and throughout Europe. It's very intriguing to me how much religion has impacted every facet of the evolution of these cities in Europe. By looking at these buildings with their escudos (again, lacking the English word--it's like an emblem engraved on the side of a house) and the visible marks where this used to be Jewish, you can tell, but now there's a big cross there--religion has had a huge impact. Peoples were kicked out of town in the name of one god, they made others their slaves basically in the name of another, they killed and tortured, they built and built and built. Bishops created universities and built towns around them (like Alcalá de Henares) -- so much has been done out of belief in a god. And I never really noticed that until just this past weekend. It's crazy to think about it, how some of these towns might never have been built nor prospered without the church, mosque, or synagogue in the center. I know for sure they'd be completely different if those places didn't exist, but in what way, I wonder.

So the old town was pretty cool, I came upon a revelation that I still don't have an answer to, and got to see and touch things built 2,000 years ago --and of course take plenty of photos for all of you to see, later. We went back to the hotel, headed to the balcony in one of the girls' rooms, cracked open a bottle of wine as we watched the city get ready for the evening and the start of a music festival in Plaza Mayor. Maya pointed out something to me on the balcony that I suppose I had only thought of in passing before, as I was mentioning how much I loved that cars couldn't drive down a lot of the streets, especially by Plaza Mayor, and so there was foot traffic everywhere. She mentioned how cool it was to see everyone, of every age out around town -- young kids, high schoolers, college kids, couples in their 30's, 40's, 50's, and grandparents, old couples walking around, hand-in-hand, slowly creeping down the street with canes in hand. Dads wearing faded pink pants and navy blue sweaters walking with his two young daughters in hand. Teenagers with shopping bags full of cheap wine and Coke -- older men carrying plastic liter cups of beer. Twenty-something women, decked out in their oh-so-European leggings, scarves, boots, purses, hats, and coats. The streets were full of life -- full of something you don't really see in America -- people, together, of all ages and lifestyles enjoying the night air and atmosphere, chilling in the plaza -- not cooped up in their respective houses, enclosing themselves in, hiding from the rest of the world.

Dinner was a pleasant surprise to me. We found a menú del día and I went against my paella rule, instead opting for arroz a la cubana. Because as we all know by now, I need to try and later love anything Cuban. It is white rice, with a fried egg on top, surrounded by cold, ketchup-like tomato sauce. I mixed it all together and devoured it all in a matter of minutes. It was delicious, it was amazing, and I could not get enough of it. I am anticipating next semester when this can be my cheap and easy meal that I have everyday for lunch or dinner, or hell, even breakfast. The wine was alright but I was disappointed that it didn't include much more than a glass--something that just shouldn't happen with a menú del día.

Afterwards was a mini-botellón in the girls' room. We picked up some Fanta Limón and ice from a nearby alimentación and headed to our hotel. We were stopped by police who were guarding any street heading towards the plaza, because at this time the music was starting. They said the ice could be used as rocks to throw at the stage or something. Perhaps this was a common problem. We told them we were going to our hotel that was right off the plaza and one of them escorted us there. 

I ended up going out to the concert later briefly. Listened for about a minute, then Rebeca decided to head back in so I joined her, was pretty tired myself. First day in Extremadura -- count it as a success.

No te preocupes

New posts coming soon, I've had a long weekend without internet access and spent the majority of the past two days uploading about 200 photos to my Flickr, so check those out while you're waiting for my new updates.

La aventura cantábrica :: Comillas y Santillana del Mar

And now the final day of the wondrous Asturian-Cantabrian adventure. The great escape weekend.

We left early again from our hotel in Cangas de Onís, heading straight towards Comillas in Cantabria. Moments before we left for the bus I "purged" the previous night's ghouls from my body in order to insure a much happier ride for all. 

Like Llanes, Comillas is a coastal town, however the bulk of the city center is significantly farther away from the ocean than is was in Llanes. There is a very steep cliff a bit in from the beaches where the majority of the city sits. We got off at the beach. We had to walk up that cliff to get to anything cool or important. Not a problem, I was feeling quite fine and in the shade it was very pleasant out (I could have done without the sun, as I always can). We learned about Marqués López and this fun adventures up in Cantabria from our dear cultural tutor, Fausto. We traveled to his big palace that was furnished by Gaudí (though the furniture was missing at this point...didn't matter as we didn't enter the house, just sat there looking at it from outside). It was your basic walking tour of some historically significant places and buildings that tends to go in one ear out the other, even if you don't want it to. 

The real adventure that occurred in Comillas was my quest for a bocadillo. Cristina gave us 30 minutes free to roam about Comillas before we had to re-meet and get on the bus to head to Santillana del Mar. Others went off to find postcards or some souvenir stuff. I briefly looked at the stuffed cows and other cow things that I really wanted but were far too expensive for what they were, then promptly thought to myself "Shit, I am hungry, I need to get myself a bocadillo before we get on this bus."

I had 25 minutes. There was a bar next to the plaza that we started at and were to meet back at. It looked like a full on restaurant, so I continued past it to another plaza area where there were plenty of terrace cafés. Some had signs saying "sandwiches," which are really not the same as bocadillos, and they happened to be sit down sandwiches, so I kept on. I ended up in a very residential part of town and quickly turned around, realizing that while it would be cool to wander off and explore the town a little more, my hunger was more important.

I returned to the starting plaza, saw a supermarket...but it was closed (as most are on Sundays, ¡qué pena!). However, right next to it was a little bakery/diner place that, on the outside of the shop, had a sign saying "bocadillos." I was in luck. I go in "Qué tipos de bocadillos tienes?" to which the woman replied "No tengo bocadillos." I was shocked and extremely disappointed at this flagrant false advertising. 

I continued on up the street. I thought I was getting away from the bar district, and losing hope of finding a boca in time, until I found a deli with a sign outside declaring bocadillos inside. I go in, ask for bocadillos, to which I get a big "¿Qué? No tengo bocadillos." Seriously, don't put up the sign people if you don't actually have them. I will just keep on walking and not disturb your fútbol game (which the guy was actually watching) if you don't tempt me with the thoughts of fresh tortilla. He was more helpful than the last lady though, he pointed his finger in some random direction and said to go there for something to eat. 

I go there. I walk in the bar, which for being 11:30 am on a Sunday was quite populated with old men shooting the shit (what a life!), and immediately spot the sign for bocadillos behind the bar. Including prices. I go up to the bartender and ask. No, they don't have bocadillos, what am I, crazy? What could possibly give me the idea that there might happen to be some sort of food in this bar, especially any type of bocadillo. He sent me on my way, with the name of another bar that actually had bocadillos, or so he told me. Bar Filipino. It sounded familiar and I remember seeing its sign somewhere.

I headed in the direction he told me, got to the plaza where we were supposed to meet in 5 minutes. Everyone was already there ready to go. I quickly said "hola" and kept walking. I knew I saw the sign around here somewhere, a big, red Coca Cola bar sign that said "Bar Filipino." I walk towards that supermarket, turn back, yes...there it is. Wait a second...Bar Filipino is the same bar that is attached to the plaza where we were meeting. Right at the very beginning of my boca-ventura. I foolishly passed it off, and now here I was, standing inside asking for a bocadillo de tortilla para llevar and clearly they had them. Within a minute I was holding a fresh boca in my hand, and the next minute we left for Santillana del Mar.

And then we got to Santillana del Mar. We only had two and a half hours there. Or, when we got off, what seemed to be forever. I wondered to myself, what the hell am I going to do in the podunk town for two and a half hours? Simple, do what we do best: comer. While I had surprisingly filled up on the boca, the rest of mis compañeros were dying for a good menú del día. We found this wonderful restaurant with a terrace garden, secluded from the din of the street. There was a giant tree next to our medieval feeling table. The table was large and round, and made out of thick, dark wood. We all sat around it in quite comfortable chairs. I just got a café con leche, which turned out to be quite good. The rest got paella and fried eggs and jamón serrano and all that good Spanish food. I wasn't too disappointed by not eating, I tried some of the serrano and wasn't too pleased, more salty than usual. 

We spent the full remaining two hours sitting there eating. I cannot begin to explain how much I love these long lunches that we had up north. There were so peaceful, so full of life and camaraderie and good spirits. I never have felt so comfortable at a dinner table. I've decided what my last meal would be. I'd tell the guards: I don't care what it is, just get me three hours, a big table outside, and all my friends and you can kill me all you want afterwards...I'd be too full and complacent to even care I was going out.

And then the ride home. I wished it could have lasted longer. I was disappointed when Cristina told us, around 8pm, that it'd only be an hour more. I didn't want the weekend to end. I felt I grew a lot closer to my friends. It was a much needed break from school and Alcalá (as fun as Alcalá is, Asturias kicks its ass any day of the week...I really wish I could study there next semester). One of the most memorable moments of the whole trip was one of the last. There we were, late at night on the on the bus ride back, a group of us just standing around in the middle of the aisles...chatting. Just talking, joking around, even talking quite a bit in Spanish (after Cristina complained that we were the group that most spoke English ever). It was wonderful, even magical...so serene and I felt so comfortable. 

Almost. Almost at home.

La aventura asturiana, parte 2º :: Los Picos de Europa, Llanes, y más de Cangas de Onís

A little late in my update, I do apologize. I have been lazy this week, nothing more than that. I feel I've almost fallen back into my horrible American procrastination habits that for at least a while I thought I had shed. I downloaded season 2 of The Simpsons this week. That, and I started re-reading 1984 (as I recommend everyone does). Let's start this with a panorama.

I really recommend clicking on that to view the full size at Flickr.

That is one of the lakes from the (national? continental?) park Los Picos de Europa, more specifically the area called Los Lagos (since behind the camera in this photo there was another big lake (photos up later on Flickr). 

We woke up early. Very early. Too early. Bad coffee at the hotel (the kind you'd expect at some diner in the northwoods), didn't help any. The bitter cold outside waiting for the bus woke us up, it was refreshing and welcome, I hadn't felt a cold breeze like that in months. Reminded me a bit of autumn in Wisconsin (as it seems everything does nowadays). We traveled in this smaller bus up a long and winding road through Los Picos. For probably a half hour went slowly gained altitude, curving along the narrow mountain roads. Observing run down shacks, farmers tending to their cattle, feral horses and dogs--the typical of Los Picos, yet so new and invigorating for me. Any tiredness I had or bad mood quickly shook off as we rose further and further into the mist. I was in the back seat of the bus, it stretched to both windows. No one sat with me. I was jumping back and forth between the left and right windows, frantically. I was in love with the place, I couldn't soak up enough of it. I tried capturing some videos of the ride up that hopefully will show you all the feelings I had when I was riding up that mountain.

We were told by our bus driver we had 25 minute (--completely unrelated side note: Mitch I hope you're reading. Host mother is listening to talk radio as she's cleaning the house, and "The Final Countdown" just came on and I thought of you). Understandable. There wasn't much to see from the tourist's perspective. Just two lakes. Great, everyone has lakes. For me though, I could have spent half the morning there. I could have just stood there staring at the lakes from a peak, taking in the environment and mountain air for an hour alone. It was majestic there. Energy was everywhere. I'll refrain from describing more because I fear I'll just seem like a fool trying to describe God or something. Photos won't do it justice but I hope they'll help.

From Los Lagos to Llanes, a port town on the northern coast of Spain, on the Bay of Biscay (Mar Cantábrico). By now it was warmer, sunny even. On the main street, hot even. But by the bay, with a strong wind whipping in my face from the ocean, it was exhilarating and welcome. Llanes is a classic port town that derives every part of its atmosphere and life from the sea. A river runs right through the middle of town towards the bay, lining along the river and dozens of terraced bars, cafés, and restaurants. Each with I'm sure equally delicious food straight from the ocean that is but a few hundred meters away. Not only does Llanes have the luck of being on the ocean, providing it a bounty of fresh and delectable seafood--it is also in Asturias, cow capital of Spain (as I've mentioned before, it's like the Wisconsin of Spain). They have the sweetest, most flavorful pastries in Llanes. Think of it like a queen bee in a bee hive. There's your regular honey that the worker bees produce, then there's royal jelly that comes from the queen. The cows in Asturias and the area around Llanes are like queen bees--queen cows, if you will. 

Lunch, at Casa Canene near the river and main street, was easily one of the best lunches I've ever had in my life. Not necessarily because of the food (which itself was amazing) but just the atmosphere--the old wooden table filled with nine great friends conversating and laughing, the decor of the bar (so typically Spanish), the bar itself being packed with dozens upon dozens of Spanish sitting down for lunch. It was crowded, it was loud. It was fantastic. We ate for probably two hours or more. We had the menú del día, where you get a first and second plate, plus a dessert and wine (unlimited house red wine). The majority of us ordered paella for our first plate. 

This was the first real paella I've ever had at a restaurant in Spain.

It came out on a huge platter, overflowing with that beautiful gold saffroned rice, mussels, shrimp, chicken. Then second plate, while it may not sound too spectacular, was a hamburger with a fried egg and fries. Clearly not a typical Spanish plate, but it had been a month since I had a real hamburger. Plus, it came with a fried egg. Eggs! No bun though, as seems to be the norm in Spain. The meat was tougher than your typical American burger, but every bit as good, covered in sauteed onions. I plopped the egg on, added some hot sauce...and I was ready to eat. I ended up eating other peoples' leftovers, a piece of bistec here, some lomo there. I was full. Then dessert. Natillas, flan, and why not, some ice cream too. I was completely and utterly stuffed. I could barely move and I was far too content with just sitting there for the rest of the day. And I probably had a whole bottle of wine myself.

Best. Lunch. Ever.

Enough about food, I'll save that for the Diaries. After lunch we went to the breakwater and walked along it, admiring los cubos de la memoría.

Once again, I could have stayed there for hours. Just sitting on the breakwater looking out into el Mar Cantábrico. It was so calming, so tranquil, even with the waves crashing up again the cubes. I was in my own world. I was sitting right next to Monica and Amelia, who were having a conversation, and all I could hear was the waves, the wind, and the mere muffles of words. I stared into the sea as if I was expecting it to respond with an answer, a solution. To what, I don't know. The sea remained silent, and I wasn't disappointed in the least.

To the beach, which I didn't care too much about (but then again, when have I ever?). So Kristine, Monica, and I headed up the stone steps to a large outcrop of land thrusting into the sea. I won't bother explaining the view, just look at this panorama.

And this one too (more of the beach area and some of the cubes too).

We went back to Cangas de Onís for dinner. We ate at a restaurant that was overtly black and orange. Very Halloween. Very weird. The food was good though. Fabadas with murciella and chorizo for first plate and chorizo for second plate. I couldn't finish, I was ashamed but realized that lunch was gigantic and that no real human being could have had both of those meals in one day. I probably gained ten pounds that day. 

Sam and I went for a walk, peed off a bridge into the river that runs through Cangas de Onís, then headed to a bar. From the outside it was hard to tell it was a bar. Very nondescript. Very hole in the wall feeling. All sorts of characters were there. Mostly men, but off all backgrounds. Younger kids, business men, construction workers. Alcoholics, addicted gamblers. Pool sharks. 

I only wanted water, as I had had far too much wine at dinner (I wasn't in the best mood so obviously I medicated myself with a depressant. Logical choice, no?). Armani, Lindsay, Sam, Amelia, and I. Lindsay was quite drunk and insistent on buying whatever it is that we wanted. Armani headed up for a second round, and I joined her to do what I do in every bar in Spain--admire the selection of liquors behind the bar. And then there it was.

Absinthe.

Armani got her drinks and we headed back to the table. I casually mentioned they had absinthe. Armani and Lindsay were insistent. I didn't want to try that night. I was convinced otherwise. I ask the bartender, how much. One shot, two euros. We get a shot. He tells me to drink it slowly. Armani, disappointed now that she just got a new round, but delighted that absinthe is only 2 euros, gets three more shots. We drained the bottle, the bartender gave us the last one free. Now, I may have had a bottle of wine or more at dinner, but I was not drunk at this point. It seems that when I have a huge dinner or lunch coupled with wine, I don't really feel it. The green fairy is not as kind. It smells like Yagermister and tastes like puke. You have to choke it down your throat and resist the urge to throw up. Really. You know that horrible scratchiness you get in your throat after you just puked? Absinthe gives you that feeling the second you swallow it. It's strong. Very, very strong. I had to sip it ever so slightly then I chased with water, plenty of water. Which I realize now probably wasn't the best chaser, but hey--it's absinthe!

Lindsay was too drunk, I escorted her back to the hotel early. She passed out right away on the bed. I stayed up trying to write in my journal. My normally horrible handwriting was ten times worse. Where I hadn't been drunk after dinner, I surely was now. I wrote about eight pages by the time Armani, Sam, and Amelia got back 45 minutes later. I was still drunk, and yet I had been drinking water all night. Seriously, I was being fed water at dinner, then had two bottles at the bar, plus plenty when I got back to the hotel. I was still drunk. We stayed up for another two hours. I was still drunk. I woke up the next day. I was not still drunk, but I had quite the headache. I puked. Twice.

People say absinthe gives you hallucinations. Others, more modern, say that's just a bunch of fabricated or exaggerated stories from Oscar Wilde and other late 19th/early 20th century writers. I was skeptical too, like many scientists are today about the hallucinogenic properties. I did not hallucinate. However, I fully believe now that if I had only been drinking absinthe and had more than one shot, I would have been hallucinating. 

Absinthe is a hell of a drug.

So Typically Spanish, Vol. 1

A pause in the Asturias stories (as if I was really getting into them anyways, I know, I've been lazy I'll have a new one up tomorrow). I'm going to start a new feature called "So Typically Spanish" after what George Orwell would always remark when a Spaniard, well, did something so typically Spanish in "Homage to Catalonia." The one example that sticks out in my mind right now (since I don't have the book to reference, it's on loan) is how when he got shot in the throat and ended up in the hospital, two Spanish acquaintances that he never spoke to on the front line, saw him in the hospital, talked to him briefly, then gave him a week worth of rations of tobacco.

So, I'm going to keep this feature in that vein (though it won't be updated as much as Epicurean Diaries). Unfortunately, my first volume begins on a more negative note.

Mala educación

Which means ill-mannered or poor manners. Or just plain rude. Now it bugs me that the perception of American people abroad is typically one of rich, lazy (though not in Spain, apparently), fat, and rude. While I do agree with all of those, I'm going to have some contention with the last one. I find that Americans are brought up to be quite polite actually...in general, of course. However, in Spain it's quite different.

Let's do a for example. For example, remember how in elementary and nearly every other type of schooling that you should listen intently when someone is talking and wait until they are done talking before you respond? How it's rude to interrupt someone while talking? Well, apparently that's just perfectly fine and actually the norm here in Spain. You're supposed to interrupt people in conversation, because as they say, that's how they know you're paying attention. This is not the O'Reilly Factor. Interrupting people is not polite. Say I'm trying to explain something to you. Say you asked me about the election "Oh well, you see, I really, really don't want McCain to be elected. What's even worse, if he is ele ---" and you say "I didn't know you didn't like McCain." then I continue "Yes, anyways, as I was saying if he is elected he'll be the oldest in history to --" "Oh really? That's interesting" "Jesus Christ could you let me finish? Please, anyways...he could easily die (though why Cheney hasn't yet I have no idea) then that dunce Sarah Palin could be President and at --" "Sarah Palin, oh, I've heard of her" "Great, I hope you have...at that point I'd just become a hermit and never speak to the outside world again."

That is the how we were instructed to hold conversations today in grammar class. This is supposed to be normal, it shows you're paying attention and engaged. Weird. I thought looking the person in the eye and nodding your head was signal enough that you cared what they were talking about, and how waiting until they were done talking to respond was a very polite and considerate thing to do. Letting them get their whole thought out before you start praising or critiquing it or making judgements. This whole interruption thing is exactly what is wrong with every talking heads show on cable news channels. Please Spaniards, stop.

This mala educación shows up every day on the streets. When walking down the typically narrow streets of anywhere in Europe, you're bound to be in the path of other people coming towards you. Naturally, the reaction is to both move out of the way (to then create that ever-so-awkward shifting back left and right with the person in front of you thing that still doesn't have a name for it). Nope. Not the Spanish, they'll just keep walking straight into you (and please, don't tell me that it's my fault that I didn't move out of the way, they weren't even making an effort). Now, this isn't all that bad. What really shows the poor manners is how they don't say a thing. No "perdon" nor "lo siento." Just keep on walking.

No one really washes their hands around here. Maybe I'm just a germ freak (I did have this OCD phase in my youth where I'd wash my hands with a far too great frequency), but seriously, when you take a shit, wash your hands. That's pretty simple. I can understand if you pee, just splashing some water on them, or hell, not even washing them. I'll let that slide. But when your hands are very much in your butt crack wiping away (or at least I hope they wipe), you really need to get in there and scrub away with some soap. Especially since you're making my meal and fondling my bread. 

Or eating out of a communal bowl. I know that you're still dying for some more nasty vegetable puree soup mush, but please, use the large serving spoon instead of your own fresh-from-your-mouth-nastacular spoon to dig right into where I was about to get seconds from. I suppose this is alright though, it prevents me from eating more and getting fatter than I already am.

I could go on but that would seem like I am very bitter and not accepting of new cultures. That's just not true, I'm just helping explain the fun little differences that those study abroad seminars always talk about. Don't hate me.