Photos from Andalucía

As you can see to the right, new photos are up from the recent trip to Córdoba and Sevilla, and shortly, I'll be putting up the pathetically small amount of Rioja photos I have.

New Photos!

New photos are up from my trip to Cuenca on Friday. Also, a few photos from right here in Alcalá, very close to where I live. Check them out.

A Gathering of Immigrants on the City Bus Causes Kyle to Have a Transcendental Experience

Today was a special day. If there are only three experiences I remember from my whole tenure here in Spain, my bus ride this morning on my way to school will be one of them. The first would be that day in Llanes, way back on September 27. The second would be my over night train ride from Alcalá to Barcelona, on the evening of January 1. Today, February 25, 2009 is number three. Let me explain.

Transcendental. It was an every day occurrence, I'm sure. The first time I've witnessed it though. Normally when I'm on the bus on my way to school I love looking out the window at everyone out on the streets going about their lives, shopping, working, strolling, whatever. It's very comforting in the morning, especially when I loathe the idea of going to school. Makes me happy.

When I got on the bus this morning most of the front seats were full, or had at least one person in the seat, and my lumbering backpack and satchel need a seat for themselves. In the back there was a seat facing backwards, I took it. Across from me in the large, four-seat area was a slightly big Latin American man. Behind him was a black man. Nothing special. Spain is full of immigrants and diverse cultures. One of the next stops a Spanish woman got on, probably in her 40s. She sat across from the Latin American man, in the four-seater. On one of the next stops a family of Asian background came in. They headed back to us, where there was room. The man sat next to me, and the woman propped up their baby in the seat next to the Latin American man. The baby was having some troubles sitting down properly. The Latin American offered to move across the way, right next to the Spanish woman, so the mother could sit next to her baby. My heart warmed up (and the baby was so cute too). So there was the mother, the baby, the Latin American, and the Spanish woman all sitting in the four-seater (two seats face forward and two seats face backwards⎯ ideal when you have a group and want to talk).

The Spanish woman abruptly gets up and moves to the front of the bus, where she takes a now vacant seat. The father who was sitting next to me moves next to the Latin American, to be closer to the family. The woman and the baby are eating some snacks. I smile. More people get on the bus. An American girl sits down next to the black guy. The front of the bus is full of Spaniards. We, the “foreigners,” all fill up the back.

I laugh but am also saddened by the Spanish woman. It is true, Spain is still a very racist, prejudiced country. My Spanish friends call the convenience stores (properly, in Spanish, alimentación) chinacos, since usually they are owned by Asians. I prefer the shorter, non-racist/generalizing term, ali. Many times I’d be walking with Monica and Kristine, both of Korean descent (Kristine actually having been born in Korea), and we received shouts of “ni hao.” Even better, as we ignored them and continued walking, “konnichiwa.”

I was in Carrefour once, a French-owned supermarket here, waiting in line behind two Romanians. The cashier had told them the total and they were gathering coinage to pay for it, but there was a misunderstanding, as the Romanians were speaking Romanian and not Spanish. They figured it out, rather easily, and the two men were off. Once they were out of earshot and the cashier was scanning my food, she was talking to the Spanish woman behind me. She complained, protesting that they should speak Spanish if they’re in Spain, that she can’t/won’t understand them otherwise. Then she proceeded to call them gilipollas (more or less, jerk/jack-ass). Everyone has heard this same tired rhetoric before in the States. Close minded people continually say “They’re in our country, they should learn our language” (for a perfect take on this, I recommend the wonderful season 7 Simpsons’ episode, Much Apu About Nothing⎯”You know what really aggrivases me? Is ‘dem immigints. They want all the benefits of livin’ in Springfield, but they ain’t even bothered to learn themselves the language.” “Yeah, those are exactly my sentimonies!”).

Alas, ignorance is every (at least from my experience, it’s definitely in both Spain and the States), and it saddens me to see such discrimination all around me. The more I stay here, I keep saying, the more liberal I get. By the time I return I’m sure I’ll be so far left I’ll be giving Gandhi a run for his money. But I don’t like to think of it in such crude political terms. I feel the more I’m here, the more I’m becoming a person, the most I’m creating my essence, as Jean-Paul Sartre would say. I’m shedding any prejudices or perceived notions I may have had. I’m being to understand the world just a little bit more.

In Casablanca (absolutely one of my favorite films of all time⎯if you haven’t ever seen it, go watch it now), Rick, Captain Renault, and Major Strasser are sitting at a table in Rick’s Café. Major Strasser is asking Rick about his history, and asks him what his nationality is. Rick replies “I’m a drunkard.” To which Captain Renault quips, “That makes Rick a citizen of the world.” Rick answers Major Stasser’s original question, “I was born in New York City if that will help you any.”

I was born in Fond du Lac, Wisconsin if that will help you any.

Like Rick, I’m a citizen of the world. I’m reminded of John Lennon’s ever-so-famous song Imagine.

Imagine there's no countries
It isn't hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion too
Imagine all the people
Living life in peace...

I’m sick of nationalism impeding progress. We’ll never evolve as a species if we don’t realize that we’re all humans. People are so stuck up on being American or Spanish or French or whatever, to quote the greatest-comedian-to-ever-live Bill Hicks “It’s a round world last time I checked.” There’s nothing wrong being proud of where you’re from⎯don’t get me wrong, I absolutely love Wisconsin⎯but the way people close themselves off from the rest of humanity because of their tiny minds, I just can’t stand it. It sickens me.

I’m disappointed in myself that it took me this long to actually come to this conclusion. Sure, I knew it in the back of my head all this time, and I’ve always believed in equality, but I suppose Spain has been my catalyst in forming my beliefs. It’s just a little depressing that not everyone gets these opportunities to see the world and have a greater understanding of what it means to be a part of the world community, what it means to be a human being, and not just an American, not just a Spaniard. I look forward, as Lennon did, to the day where there are no more countries, when we’re all one.


Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one's lifetime.

⎯Mark Twain, Innocents Abroad

Ahem....

So clearly I went to Portugal like two months ago and if this is the only way you've been in contact with me (hopefully not, Dios no lo quiera), then I probably seemed dead. For that, I'm sorry (if you thought I was dead). I'm not. Yay! I've just been busy and lazy. Well, mostly lazy. It's not like I haven't been writing though since I still write in my journal everyday (and I try drawing every once in a while too!). 

What have I done since my last entry? Let's make a list:

• Lisbon, Portugal
• "Graduated" from my first semester of school in Alcalá
• Watched all but three of my friends from autumn return to the United States (tear)
• Mother came to visit, we headed to Bilbao for a weekend, then spent the rest of the time in Madrid
• Father and cousin came, we went to Barcelona, Zaragoza, Vitoria-Gasteiz, and Madrid
• I moved into the residencias (dorms, more or less), the new group of students arrived, and we started school
• Since then I've been doing work and living the Spanish life
• Constantly feel ashamed I haven't been keeping this updated

So that's that. I will try to get an update of some decent length up later this week. I won't promise 'cuz I don't entirely trust myself. Until then, enjoy these awesome new photos I just put on Flickr from my travels. There's the Portugal ones, plus about 300 ones from winter break. 

Enjoy.

Lisboa

Goin' to Portugal folks, see ya in three days.

Ávila es aviliciosa

This past Friday I went to Ávila (in Castilla León) with my literature class as a bit of a day field trip. I never enjoy waking up early, of course, and I had to be up at 7:45 a.m. for this trip, so clearly I wasn't too excited about going there. And yet, I was very surprised with the trip, having enjoyed the city.

Ávila is the birthplace and major residence of Santa Teresa de Jesús (Saint Theresa), who did a whole bunch of crazy stuff in her life like being penetrated by a flaming arrow held by some type of tiny angel representing God. There's a statue in Rome by Bernini commemorating this called "The Ecstasy of Saint Theresa" or better, in Spanish "El Éxtasis de Santa Teresa." I've only seen it in a documentary but it rivals Michelangelo's David. It's that awesome. She was a member of the Renaissance's mystic movement, along with San Juan de la Cruz. Basically the mystics believed it was possible to become one with God before you died. They wrote poems that seem like raunchy love stories and they experienced things that you wouldn't expect to hear about God. The experience of being one with God in this world was so great and indescribable though that they had to make their literature seem sexual in order that the general public would understand what exactly it was they were going through.

Anyways. Ávila. We got there early morning with the sun straight in our eyes as we overlooked the city from some stone cross on the outskirts. This is one of the few cities that was/still is surrounded by defensive walls. They are the coolest parts of the city. That a this one plaza, but I'll get to that later. 

Then we headed to some church, another one, I know. Don't try to ask me to recall the name or whether it was really a church, cathedral or basilica. I have no clue. There were crosses and some Jesus statues. And benches and candles and all that fun stuff you'll find in any of the three. It was still pretty cool though, but we were only there for a few brief moments. We headed to the catacombs below the church where there is now a museum to Santa Teresa and all that goodness. We read the part of her autobiography where she talks about being impaled by the glory of God in the catacombs and a part of her famous poem "Vivo sin vivir en mí" (I live without living in myself) where she says she's living but not really because she'd rather be with God. Another line "muero porque no muero" I'm dying because I'm not dying. Powerful stuff and one of my favorite poems of the era. 

Of all the places to possibly hold a religious relic, one of Santa Teresa's fingers is just through a giftshop in Ávila. It's very decrepit and old and green and brown and hairy (mold?) and has a ring attached. The story goes that Franco had one of her hands and would touch it before he signed any laws or did anything important. That hand is now in Sevilla, I believe. The other, in Rome. No one knows which hand the finger in Ávila belongs to, and I'm not quite sure why not, you'd think whoever has the hand would just check and tell us. My theory is that it's from the right hand because of the ring. In Rome and Spain the marriage ring goes on the right hand -- and although she was a nun and couldn't get married she was a rebel, so it's possible, no?

The walls, as I have said earlier, are probably the coolest part of the city because you can go up and run around on them and survey the area below you. How the city has expanded beyond the walls and all the farms surrounding it. You can peer into the city and see everyone heading about getting ready to eat lunch (if you're up there at about lunch time, that is). Needless to say there will be some cool photos from this section coming up soon. I spotted while up there this plaza, empty with a line of benches like a church on one side, interspersed with barren trees. For no reason whatsoever it made me think of Russia (I have a weird association system in my brain). I was in love and headed down to find lunch around there. Yet, the place was full of banks, yema stores (candy shops, basically) and a Burger King. No restaurants with menú del días, I was very disappointed and ended up eating two dürüm kebabs (they're doner kebabs wrapped in a mexican tortilla instead of a pita -- amazing). 

Had some wine and yemas (yemas are yolks in Spanish, but yemas de Ávila are candies made from yolks covered in sugar. Really sweet, pretty tasty too. Made up for the fact I didn't get any wine nor postre (dessert), as one would if they had a menú del día. We intended to go to some basilica but there were problems with payments or something (they didn't give us receipts and that's what we needed), so we just shrugged our shoulders and headed home, passing out on the bus because I was dead tired. 

Good times.

Oh, and Happy Thanksgiving to you imperialist American Indian killers tomorrow!

No, but seriously, I'm going to miss Thanksgiving. Hope you all have fun and drink one for me and eat a biscuit and gravy sammich for me too!

The best way to cheer up when classes, school, and host families suck

A menú del día.

While a healthy (read: not healthy) serving of red wine. Arroz a la cubana (this time with a banana!) and huevos with tomato sauce and chorizo (not so good chorizo though). Sitting back and relaxing, the itis sinking in. Icing on cake, The Simpsons on T.V. How fun. That's how those extremely dull literature classes that convinced me that I really do have ADD were wiped from my mind and I was in a state of bliss (which apparently the closest Spanish word is éxtasis). 

But then I had to teach those kids. No bigs, just had to play a board game I made up with them for an hour, then back to the good life. Headed out to a new favorite café, Café Continental, which is where I'm at still, three hours later. They have WiFi, how cool? Oh, and cheap mojitos--though I see why they're cheap, they taste less than good. Ungood if you will. They use spiced rum instead of the traditional (and in this case, better tasting) white rum. The juice, I am told, is not good here as well, and the margarita is more like a martini than a margarita, which really isn't a problem but it's just false advertising. 

Been spending the afternoon flying through homework so I don't have to do it tomorrow or Thursday (no more homework for the rest of the week and it's only Tuesday)...so tomorrow, no tutoring, no homework--going to hopefully spend the day attempting to write something cool. Perhaps a short story, perhaps the beginning (or middle! or end!) of a book. 

Was spending the rest of the afternoon looking at my possible classes for next semester then for this summer and next year back in Madison. I only have 40 more credits to graduate. Sure, I could just graduate with a Spanish major, but I want to do LACIS too so I don't feel like a complete bum. And I want to take some French but that would just prolong my stay in Madison (not that that would be a bad thing, it's just I don't know when Obama's $4,000 tuition credit is going to be cutting in). If that does happen to happen though, perhaps I'll just ride out a few more years in school just learning stuff I want to. Already planning on taking more creative writing classes when I get back. Every time I look at my schedule and plans I think I know what the heck is going on and get a huge headache then look at it the next day and I feel completely lost again.

But hey. 

The monotony of monotony

The days can get so long and so tiresome here. The weeks will drag, or at least the school day portions. Sure, classes aren't that long. Three hours a day, that's all I have, only four days a week. But then there's that lull time where there isn't much to do. I'm stuck in the house, on my bed (since there is no other furniture in my room and there's no way in hell I'd go out into the living areas of this infernal household), hunched over bored out of my mind. Dicking around on the internet, probably the real reason it took me two weeks to update my blog. I wait for other people to finish lunch or something, so we can go out and get coffee or something at least, but that adds up after a while and not everyone wants to get coffee all the time. So I'm stuck at home. I've been spending the last two weeks downloading and watching entire seasons of The Simpsons. It's becoming my new hobby, my new obsession. 

So when I have free time, instead of doing homework (which I always hold off until after dinner), I'll watch The Simpsons. It's great, I'm catching up on my childhood, while seeing episodes I've never seen before, and learning a lot about family, oddly enough. School days are such: school, lunch, Simpsons, ???, dinner, homework, bed.

On Tuesdays and Thursday I do tutor two kids for an hour. Getting paid, getting paid. At times I find it hard what to do with them, I'm finding it's hard doing this teaching stuff, especially when you don't have a lesson plan or even an idea how or what to teach kids. They're at the point where they understand plenty of English vocabulary but have no idea to how string together a sentence or understand a question. So I'm trying to teach them set phrases. We end up playing games all the time, which isn't bad, but I feel at times like I'm doing a shitty job. I did make up a game for them though, that we just started playing so hopefully that'll last a few weeks and they'll actually be able to ask and answer typical questions in English. Oh, and I taught them Go Fish, which they seem to like.

Had a brief fling with a sickness this past Friday, perhaps because of the previous night's botellón and dancing (ha-- I'm allergic to dancing, and yet I still go...). So most of Friday was spent inhaling medicines and trying to get fresh air and not succumb to the sickness. Saturday I was in much better spirits, and it happened to come on a good day because it was the birthday celebration of Javi, one of our Spanish friends.

We went to his house for dinner and drinks and games. He lives just off Calle Mayor in this absolutely beautiful and big typical Spanish...villa? hacienda? It's gigantic and has a courtyard. Totally jealous. Stayed there for a while, enjoying ourselves, then went to go meet up with Rebeca and Maya. Had some drinks and patatas at a bar that was closing down (how happy they were to see us leave), then off to Gabanna Bar for dancing (oh no, the allergies are acting up). I actually stayed for quite a while, which is a rarity with me. I helped fend off a French creeper from the ladies. Simply had to walk near them and he darted away like a cockroach or mouse. At one point he put on a black glove, which I believe was his signal of his affinity for OJ. 

We had to fortune of Armani's host family being gone for the weekend, and her mother said she could have a friend over if she wanted. Of course with us that means four friends. Don't you know you multiply everything by four in Spain? Yes. So we headed to Armani's at three or four in the morning and began devouring food. I basically inhaled two pizzas with little help from the rest. They were jamón york I think. Not sure, didn't pay too much attention, just ate. We sat around the kitchen eating and eating and shooting the shit (and downing water)...it reminded me so much of home. This was the first time I've actually been able to sit in someone's house or even kitchen at the end of a night and just chill out and eat. It's the rarest thing in Spain yet so common back home. For those back home having such experiences right now: cherish it. Eventually you'll get old and people stop doing that. How lame! Or you'll study abroad in Spain or some other crazy customs country and not be able to sit drunkenly around a table eating whatever is in front of you and feeding lettuce to a hamster at 4:30 in the morning on a Sunday.

Seriously.

¡Qué perezoso!

Ok, so maybe it's been two weeks and I haven't updated. Very sorry for that folks but I'll try harder to keep this updated more.

You see, I've just been doin' stuff. And things. And when I get home at the end of the day of doing stuff I'm usually not in the mood to type so more. I do force myself to write every night in my journal, even if I don't at all feel like it (you should see how illegible the more drunken entries are) -- but getting on the computer and typing is a different story, I suppose. And I apologize, though I've kept in contact with you guys anyways, so you know I haven't died at all. That much is for sure.

What have I been doing? Hmm...

Last I left off was the day before election day. Holy crap a lot has happened since then.

Election night here was interesting. We are six hours ahead of the east coast, so about the time polls were closing in the States, most people were already in bed and asleep. But not me. I pleaded and begged my friend Monica to implore her parents to keep the internet on all night (I steal it from her house since it's so close by). They relented and I stayed up watching a live feed of MSNBC and having about four other tabs open on my computer with maps and percentages and all that good stuff about the election. It was 4a.m. and it looked like Obama was going to win but there was no way I was going to go to bed until it was official. Around 10p.m. central time, the election was going to be called, I could tell, as soon as the West Coast polls closed. At about 9:50p.m. central time, the internet cut off. I frantically called Monica and my mom and Angie back home to tell them there are problems and they might need to relay the results to me in a few minutes. Monica scrambled, thankfully, and got the internet turned back on at 10p.m. CST, the live feed to MSNBC came back in the moment they got back from commercial and announced Barack Obama as the next president of the United States.

Now keep in mind it was 5a.m. in Spain. The streets were quiet and dark. I was in my room with the lights off, on the phone with my mom. I had been up for nearly 24 hours. I was shaking. I couldn't fall asleep. I called Armani to let her know, her mom had already called her. We were both freaking out, too excited and too emotional to do anything but just run around in awe. I was pacing throughout my room trying not to wake up my host parents. I quickly scribbled in my journal a few words of disbelief then tried to fall asleep.

Received a text from our teacher a few hours later saying she was sick and class was cancelled. I like to believe she was just giving us the day off because she knew we were up awaiting the results. I slept soundly until my second class, then headed in.

That night was a time for celebration. Maya, Monica, and myself headed to our favorite café/bar, Macandé and got a bottle of cava (Spanish champagne). Maya and myself downed it and stumbled to meet up with the rest of our friends. I was in an American mood so I demanded a hamburger, but the best place to get burgers in town (a bar called la Amstelería -- literally "the Amstel shop") was full because there was a football game on. Regrettably we went to Tony Roma's. Regrettable only because I hate being that American that goes to the only American restaurant in town, a chain no less. Whatever, I was excited, Obama will be our new President, time to celebrate. I got a burger and wine. Later we headed to a new fun café/bar we found called Café Renacimiento (Renacimiento=Renaissance). The building appears to be an old church or temple, and it's about three stories tall with plenty of seating everywhere. We've been there on weekend nights and it fills up quickly at night.

Post-election? My mind was still racing from my pre-election fury. Ask anyone here and I was not a fun person to be around before the election because I was constantly freaking out, worried, and anxious about the outcome. Now, of course, I've calmed down.

We had the usual botellón on Thursday. We ended up at the karaoke bar singing, appropriately, "We Are the Champions." The spirit of victory constantly remained with us the triumphant ones (unfortunately one of our amigas here is a--dare I say it--McCain supporter. Or rather, was.), Friday was filled with more celebrations, wine and tapas and raciones in the afternoon, café after café of celebratory rounds. It was and still is a great time to be an American. Very different though being abroad, it gives you a new perspective I suppose. Everyone here was extremely excited for Obama and us Americans. For once we weren't hated!

La Luna would have been on Friday if I had not had a bad run in with Lambrusco on our way there (it's something to say when you can walk past a cop with a bottle of wine in our hand...), having stuffed myself again at dinner, taking swigs of carbonated beverages was not a good idea. I went home early.

Unfortunately ended up staying in altogether on Saturday because I was beat from the rest of the week, the week of craziness, so many emotions packed into so few days and hours at times is very dangerous.

Then Sunday, the day everyone universally dreads. The day of waking up tired, not wanting to shower or change, having a mountain of homework to do, and generally being grumpy. You can't ever get to sleep, causing Mondays to suck too, you don't feel like going out because you have all this homework but you really want to get some fresh air, to escape the monotony of the house. Yeah, Sundays pretty much suck. So that's why we headed to Madrid to watch a movie--in English! "Burn After Reading" if you haven't seen it (came out in September in the States) is the new Coen brothers movie, a comedy about espionage and misunderstanding, really. It's quite good and I recommend seeing it if it's still in theatres by you.

That was two weeks ago, the fated election week. It's lunch time now but after I do that I'll let you all know what happened this past week. And what a week it was.

Oh, and I'll stop being lame too, what with the whole not-updating-in-forever thing. Oh and if I ever get stable and quick internet at the home location I'll upload some cool photos I've taken recently here in Alcalá.

Que recordarás las tardes de invierno por Madrid

I spent the majority of the past two afternoons in Madrid, which is quickly becoming a favorite pastime of mine. I went yesterday as an escape and it was definitely needed, and refreshing. To get away from the monotony and occasional annoyance of Alcalá. 

Armani and I went yesterday during the afternoon for such an escape, with no particular plans in mind, which is really the way to go when heading to Madrid -- no expectations, just wandering around, trying to get lost and discover something new, something hidden away -- a treasure of the city. And we did just that. 

For the first time in exactly two months I had a bagel. We were told of an international deli/market in Madrid by Fausto our cultural director that not only had bagels but also plenty of international foods. This was our first stop, our main mission of heading to Madrid.

I searched the relatively bare shelves encountering quite a few American goodies -- Betty Crocker cake mixes, Hersey's chocolate syrup, Southern Comfort -- and other foreign goods like Grey Goose (which is impossible to find elsewhere) and my favorite oddity, corned beef in a can from Brazil. So to answer my own question from long ago, yes, they do have corned beef in Spain and Madrid was the place to find it. Unfortunately it's canned and from Brazil, which might effect the taste of a reuben if I ever attempt to make one here. They had New York cheesecake and apple crumble pie or something and plenty of good old America foods. 

Anyways-- the bagels. Plain toasted with cream cheese. It didn't really have a hole in the middle but no matter the shape a bagel is a bagel if it's cooked right, and it was. Delicious, though it has nothing on Bagels Forever, of course. The guy behind the counter was incredibly nice. We got to talking and told him we were studying in Alcalá and all that jazz. He's from Kenya and moved to Madrid just four years ago, he started out studying then decided to stay. Says his favorite place to go in Spain is San Sebastian, so of course I got along with him. He didn't even charge us for the bagels, it was so cool. 

We headed onward to the giant Corte Inglés by Puerta del Sol in order to search out Moleskin notebooks (as I've almost finished one and only have one left, which will be filled quite quickly I believe, I needed backup). The bookstore didn't have any, which it odd for us Americans seeing as every Barnes and Noble and Borders are full of them, you'd think books and notebooks go hand in hand, those that read tend to like to write too. But no, there were no notebooks at all. They did have the smallest English language section I've seen, weird considering the very tiny book stores in Alcalá have a larger selection of English language books. Mostly it was full of American trash novels, Stephen King and the like, but they did have nearly every Hemingway about Spain and even the ones that weren't. I picked up "The Old Man and the Sea" as I've been dying to read it and it's a short breather before I get back into a Spanish book. 

At regular, migraine-inducing Corte Inglés (I actually took Excedrine in the store due to the sensory overload), they had a huge pile of Moleskin books but not a single normal sized, hard back, book style lined notebook. They had every possible variety of a 2009 planner--daily, weekly, big, small, soft cover and hard. They even had lined regular journals...but reporter style, which just doesn't fly with this kid over here. So I gave up and headed onwards to find some food. 

Walking around Puerta del Sol searching for a doner kebab I saw an alimentación with a wall of tiny one shot bottles of booze, and I immediately thought "Hey maybe they have a tiny bottle of absinthe as a cute little gift," so I searched the wall. Nothing. I walked around the corner, looked in the window and my heart skipped a few beats. There it was, or there they were. Four bottles of absinthe, a 70%, the 80% that we had in Asturias, another 80% called "Yellow Absinthe" and finally one labeled "Cannabis flavored Absinthe" with a weed leaf on it. They were reasonably priced, being about $22 a 750ml bottle, which is awesome considering the fake stuff in America costs about $75. You can guarantee I'll be picking one up shortly--but I decided to hold off yesterday.

From there to Starbucks at la Plaza de Neptuno and an odd thing that has been known to occur to us study abroad folks: forgetting we're in Spain for the briefest of moments. It seems hard when you're sitting en terraza right off a large plaza with a statue of Neptune and fountain and corrals of cars circling around at rapid speeds. The weather was perfectly cold and a bit windy. I looked up into the sky and remembered, wow, I'm in Spain, what is everyone in America doing right now? It's a crazy feeling to lose sense of yourself like that, even for a brief moment.

Sunday brought Maya, Monica, and myself to Madrid to see Guernica and la Reina Sofia. It's free admission to la Reina Sofia (the modern art museum) on Sundays so aprovechamos la oportunidad as did nearly everyone else. The place was packed, especially around Guernica, Picasso's immortal painting of the Spanish Civil War. The rest of the rooms paled in comparison, obviously, but there were plenty of paintings that caught my eye. One in particular was un mundo by Ángeles Santos . Such detail and imagination in that work. I could stare at it for a very long time. Another wasn't a painting but an installation by Nancy Spero, who has a temporary collection there. It was called "May Pole" and it was a room with a maypole and attached to the strings were severed heads of humans (not real ones of course), it was horrifying and humbling at the same time. I felt as if the heads were real. It was eerie.

Like the lunch at Llanes, the lunch I had Sunday in Madrid was perhaps one of the best lunches I've ever had. We went to Kaixo a very stylish and gourmety restaurant. The food was out of this world and a complete surprise from what we could have expected. I got croquetas, a pretty standard Spanish delish food. They came, five of them, on a small flat and black plate with a cut up tiny tomate in a flower shape and stacked like a pyramid. They contained jamón ibérico, and they were the best croquetas I've ever had. I knew these wouldn't suffice, so I got a toasted bread half sandwich thing. Brie cheese and caramelized onions. It was bliss in every bite. Oh, and a fine (if a bit small) glass of red wine on the side. 

Did I mention dessert? Tarta de higos. Fig deliciousness. It beats out apple pie. It beats out any type of pie/cake thing I've ever had. At first it was alright, but as I dug into it-- the sweet, sweety honeyness of figs overcame me. Add a café con leche and I am done.

What do you do after a lunch like that? How do you go on? Well, head to a historic café that was founded in 1888 and was frequented by artists and writers and poets during the Franco era. It's expensive, it's ritzy, but it's awesome and full of historic atmosphere. There were reserved tables when we came in. We sat in a corner and observed the people. An old, white haired, man came in and sat at the reserved table. The waiter brought his drink before he could even order. We immediately began speculating who he could be. We decided he is a famous artist as he was sketching away in a journal he had, and was showing it off to different waiters, and a lot of his friends came in probably had extremely intelligent and important conversations. [Side note: sorry if I'm not making much sense but I'm watching the live feed from MSNBC right now as I am far too anxious right now for the election (YOU BEST HAVE VOTED!) and am planning on staying up until we find out who won this thing (which might be til 6am or so here in Spain)]

From there we headed home, as it was the only sensible option. A dish of four flavors of ice cream from the café and the energy you get from sitting in such a monumental environment, you have no choice but to head home. One of the best lunches I've ever had then this enlightening café. What was next?

Don Juan en Alcalá. A once a year outdoor theatre spectacular. Rotating stages. Crowds of people running from stage to stage as the scenes changed. Thousands of alcalaínos huddled in the freezing cold watching this one of a kind celebration.

Then home, and sleep.

Final note. Vote. VOTE. VOOOOOTE. 

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.

La aventura asturiana, parte 1º :: Oviedo & Cangas de Onís

I am back from the Asturian adventure, three days in La España Verde, the most majestic and inspiring and delicious part of Spain. Definitely not the stereotypical flamenco-dancing, bull fighting, sangria-drinking Spain -- it's the place people don't really know too much about but it always a huge surprise when they realize that it is still Spain. I was disappointed when first applying for study abroad that the farthest north program was in Alcalá (which is not northern at all), as I wanted to study in La España Verde (Galicia, Asturias, Cantabria, y País Vasco). I was reminded why I wanted to in the first place this weekend. Asturias and Cantabria...well, you'll see. I'll relate the weekend in four parts (one post for each day and a final Epicurean Diary España Verde edition wherein I recount my amazing meals and run in with absinthe).

This whole trip started Friday morning at 8a.m. sharp in la Plaza de Cervantes, where all twelve of us (Blen was "sick"), along with Fausto and Cristina hopped onto our unnecessarily large autobús with Silva, our driver, and headed out towards the north country, green Spain, the wonderful land of Los Picos y el mar Cantábrico. The seven hour or so trip took us through los Picos as we were heading into Asturias. The typical boring landscape of Castilla transformed into a vibrant, mountainous, and green region filled with plenty of trees, deep valleys, and small lakes. Spotted along the route were tiny villages, sometimes consisting of no more than 30 houses or so. What fascinated me most about these places is how no two houses nor building looked alike nor were there any advertisements on any of the buildings or bars. No recognizable stores, no chains of any kind. I was in love. I couldn't help but think that if this was in the States everyone would have the same model home, painted white with a perfect, tiny square back yard, and down the block would be a Wal-Mart or McDonalds. 

The bus ride consisted mostly of everyone else sleeping except for me and a few other people at random times. We occupied ourselves by eating our bocadillos and staring out the windows in awe. As much as I can't stand bus rides, I actually enjoyed this one since I was with so many good friends. I was almost sad when we had to get off because we arrived in Oviedo...then I remembered that I was in Oviedo and was about to have a much greater time in Asturias.

We didn't spend much time in Oviedo, three hours in the town, and then another hour and a half up on a hillside over looking the town. There was this big cathedral there, which we spent far too much time in. I don't care for places that a) don't allow photographs and b) have pictures of artifacts hanging up on the walls instead of the actual artifacts themselves. Seriously. They had photos of these gilded crosses and shrouds that were allegedly supposed to cover Jesus when they took him off the Cross...but they didn't have the actual shrouds. Just the photos of them, all faded hanging in frames. Very odd. 

The rest of Oviedo was pretty amazing though. It is a very large city but definitely doesn't feel like it. It's modern, full of wonderful architecture and statues everywhere (apparently it's the city with the most statues in the world or something -- and the only one with a statue of an ass...wait for the photos). And I mean statues everywhere. We couldn't walk a city block without seeing a few. There was even one of Woody Allen (which I got pretty excited about). Oviedo has such a small town feel, the people were nice, it smelled normal (for a European town this is rare), and there was an entire section of town where they just had a fish market, a bunch of bakeries, butcher shops, and cheese stores. Pretty sure I was in love and wanted to move upstairs of one of these shops immediately. Asturias and Cantabria are famous throughout Spain and Europe for their cows. It felt like I was back in Wisconsin. All the tourist shops had all these cow paraphernalia, stuffed cows, cow mugs, cow hats, cow t-shirts... I was quite content. 

Even more to remind me of Wisconsin? Yes. In the large park in the center of Oviedo, besides having wild turkeys (already thinking about Thanksgiving, although you don't eat these ones I'm told), they had thousands of chestnuts lining the paths. Unfortunately the leaves hadn't started changing yet or else I would never have left the place. 

We headed up a mountain, up a cow trail, on foot. Passed some old farm houses and also some farmers walking their cattle up the path. We didn't go all the way up but we went pretty far to look at two old churches/temples of which we didn't even go in...not that I would have been too enthused. I can see the complaint people give often about how they hate sighting in Europe because all it is is "Oh, there's another church. And there's a cathedral. And there's a temple." It's true. Now, I wouldn't mind that too much if these places we were visiting were architecturally amazing, and not dilapidated piles of rocks. Anything pre-Roman just doesn't do it for me. Show me gothic or Renaissance, then I'll be paying attention.

Nevertheless, I had a great time and I believe the crisp mountain air (and the somewhat cooler temperature) rejuvenated everyone's spirits and we were all quite happy and jubilant for Cangas de Onís and our dinner there at a sidrería.

Sidrería: a place where they specialize in sidra. Sidra: a carbonated alcoholic beverage similar to champagne that is produced in la España Verde. Smells like puke, tastes more like beer (with a 6% ABV too), yet really cleans out your teeth, almost like mouthwash. At first I wasn't too enthused about the taste, but it eventually grew on me. More about that during the Epicurean Diaries. And about the dinner, or at least the food served. The ten of us (Tommy and Alix opted instead to go eat pasta and pizza at a pizzaría instead of partake in our gorge-fest that was the dinner at el Conchu (the name of our lovely sidrería). And what a fest it was. We had the sidra in the middle (of course, you know, that you have to pour the sidra into the glass from on high), and nearly everyone got something different (save for me, Maya, and Kristine, who all got croquetas). We ate and laughed and generally were merry. We ended up trying each other's foods, sampling everything from the simple chicken breast to chorizo in sidra sauce to some crazy pork/turkey soup thing that Armani got.

What only added to the experience was the actually restaurant. We came in with a big group and were easily accommodated because they only had huge, long tables meant for big groups. There was only one table open, the place was jam packed with whole extended families and groups of friends eating and drinking. Everything about that place gave off such a cozy vibe. Felt like a north woods bar, plenty of woodwork and down to earth characters inhabited the place. The only thing that was out of place was the fact that the waiters took our orders on iPhones. A bit of modernity in the otherwise authentic Asturian sidrería. 

While others were content after this meal, I, as usual, was up for a night cap, a glass of wine at another local to get more of the flavor of the town. After rejecting the loud Irish pub (my veto), we found a quiet, stone-walled and wood beam-supported tavern for some red wine. We stood around a big wine cask and had a glass of the house wine, which was pretty good (as it always seems to be). It was heading towards midnight and they were closing. We were the last people in there and I loved how was we were heading out the two workers were sitting down to dinner. They had a bottle of wine, a basket of bread, and a large portion of freshly sliced jamón ibérico in front of them. It was cute, I was jealous (though still stuffed from dinner so I was more apathetic), and it made me feel all warm inside...and immediately want to move up to Asturias.