I always underestimate the process of acclimation when arriving in a new country. Somehow I expect to just jump right off the plane, and into a familiar routine – to sleep and eat on schedule, to explore from place to place without feeling lost or overwhelmed. Then, once I’ve landed and set my feet onto unfamiliar ground, I remember… it is in fact a process, and sometimes you just have to take things one step at a time.
Today we visited the city, and took the metro into downtown. Walking from Mariya’s quiet neighborhood across the bridge and toward the Metro station, it was obvious by people-watching that I’d misestimated the sense of style in this country. As Mariya suggested, I brought conservative clothing: short sleeves, knee length skirts, flat sandals that were comfortable to walk in. While this worked out well for comfort, the vast majority of women our age and even older were wearing much less – itty bitty shorts, midriff bearing tops, high stiletto heels in the early afternoon. Being female, I also couldn’t help but notice the standard of beauty among all the women walking around. Never in my life have I seen so many size-two to double zero, 5 foot 8, C to DD cup sized, blue-eyed women walking around in one place. (Except maybe Manhattan Beach, but this is the real thing.) Apparently, Joe Biden made a comment once about Ukraine having the most beautiful women in the world… well, within the first ten minutes of walking around I don’t think anyone could argue with that.
Of course there are also a reasonable number of good looking guys – but as Matt pointed out, the ratio is still pretty unfair. Almost every guy I have seen in his late teens to mid-20s has been clean-shaven, well-built (until early 30s when they get vodka/beer bellies) and surprisingly fashionable, most wearing nice shoes and no sunglasses to cover their light-colored eyes. Matt with his beard-in-progress and me with my Irish/German looks both stand out as clearly not from here… but hey, at least we have Mariya!
For lunch, we visited a place which phonetically translates to “poo-zata-hata” (“Fully Tummy Hut”) and all three of us got a nice dose of culture shock. Being worthless at reading or speaking any Russian, Matt and I have been relying completely on Mariya to navigate and translate. Problem is, in the 12 years since Mariya moved from the Ukraine, the country has decided to nationalize and make Ukranian its national language instead of Russian. (Ukranian is about as different from Russian as English is from Spanish.) Everyone still speaks Russian, but all the signs, advertisements and in our case food labels at the buffet are written in Ukranian, so when we arrived at the peak of lunch hour to this crowded buffet, it quickly turned into chaos.
First, we entered into the exit, not knowing which way to navigate through the crowded tables full of people with plastic trays. When we finally got in on the right side, Matt and I stared bewildered at the dozens of cafeteria-style entrees lining the buffet. Some of it looked like salad – I recognized cut up cucumbers and tomatoes covered in dill. There were piles of meats – one looked vaguely like sausage, and there was definitely rice, but others were battered and fried, and covered in sauces that neither of us recognized. People were pushing us forward in line and yelling out orders, but Matt and I couldn’t do anything but point. Mariya taught us that “eta” means “that” so I just waved my hand and said “eta!” at whatever was closest, and prayed that they didn’t ask me questions.
By the time we made it through the buffet line and to the checkout, I had a plate full of food, and I couldn’t tell you what it was. We got to the checkout counter, and the lady said some number I didn’t understand, so I gave her a 100 bill. (Roughly equivalent to $12.) She was clearly annoyed that she had to give me change, but I had no idea how to respond. We were all flustered, and Mariya said something to her in Russian that she scoffed at, but then at least it ended well. I got my change, we eventually found a table, and after a few bites of food we had all calmed down.
“You have to remember that ten year old Masha is giving you a tour of the city, and I’ve never been here without my Mom” Mariya reminded us when we sat down. “It’s not easy for me either.”
Matt and I can’t read, write or speak, and Mariya isn’t fluent in the written language, but at least between the three of us we’re figuring it out as we go!
Monday, June 21, 2010
Welcome to Kiev!
Yesterday evening we arrived at Mariya’s grandparents’ apartment in Kiev, and I could barely finish dinner before collapsing onto the pullout couch bed. Even as the jet lag and compiled exhaustion from the last few weeks hit me, something about the tiny apartment felt comforting. Her grandparents smiled and hugged us hello, and even in a completely unfamiliar place, the pictures of little Mariya and stories I’d heard about this place gave me a vicarious sense of home.
I woke up this morning to cars rushing by outside, loud birds chirping, and a piercing sunlight beaming in from the porch balcony. Mariya left the patio door open for fresh air, and the world outside was already awake and buzzing at 7am. After a traditional breakfast of pancake-like biscuits made of cheese and raisins, we took turns showering in the raised bathtub then headed eight stories downstairs to explore her old neighborhood in the “West Bank.”
This particular part of Kiev is situated on an island west of the main city, and is primarily residential – all around us are stacks of high density apartment buildings, joined together by narrow roads and identical plazas that are decorated with small communal gardens and brightly painted playground sets. I took nearly a dozen pictures of the apartment building facades alone, because they fascinate me – talk about a homeowner’s association nightmare! Every apartment has a balcony, but residents are free to cover/not cover, and decorate them as they wish. The result of this is a patchwork of wood, aluminum, splotchy yellow paint, plastic, metal, and nearly every other exterior façade you can imagine.
Mariya explained to us the history of these apartments, and how they were built in the 1960s to house large families in compact and economically efficient places. Considering the rough times Ukraine has faced in the last century, the patchwork balconies are an interesting expression of individual taste for this little island- withstanding a history of famine in the 1930s, being occupied by the German soldiers during World War II, living through the dictatorships of Lenin and Stalin, a broken economic system under Soviet communism, and in recent history, the horrible Chernobyl nuclear disaster. (Chernobyl is only about 40km north of here, and Mariya’s mother and uncle lived with her grandparents in this apartment when it happened.)
As we walked through the quiet neighborhood, Mariya (or “Masha” as her family calls her) pointed out all of the familiar places from her childhood: her old apartment, only a quarter mile down the road from her grandparents. Her colorful elementary school with painted tires buried along the entryway. The rusty little playground that she used to play in as a child, with her secret hiding spot tucked away in the bushes. The peeling wooden bench her mom used to sit on and watch her, still painted in the same faded primary colors.
We watched the sun set along the river, and talked about plans for the next few days - visiting the city with her grandparents. Going to the opera. Meeting up with Mariya’s childhood friend, and her stepmother who picked us up from the airport. Kiev is a beautiful and historic city, and it sounds like we have a lot to look forward to!
I woke up this morning to cars rushing by outside, loud birds chirping, and a piercing sunlight beaming in from the porch balcony. Mariya left the patio door open for fresh air, and the world outside was already awake and buzzing at 7am. After a traditional breakfast of pancake-like biscuits made of cheese and raisins, we took turns showering in the raised bathtub then headed eight stories downstairs to explore her old neighborhood in the “West Bank.”
This particular part of Kiev is situated on an island west of the main city, and is primarily residential – all around us are stacks of high density apartment buildings, joined together by narrow roads and identical plazas that are decorated with small communal gardens and brightly painted playground sets. I took nearly a dozen pictures of the apartment building facades alone, because they fascinate me – talk about a homeowner’s association nightmare! Every apartment has a balcony, but residents are free to cover/not cover, and decorate them as they wish. The result of this is a patchwork of wood, aluminum, splotchy yellow paint, plastic, metal, and nearly every other exterior façade you can imagine.
Mariya explained to us the history of these apartments, and how they were built in the 1960s to house large families in compact and economically efficient places. Considering the rough times Ukraine has faced in the last century, the patchwork balconies are an interesting expression of individual taste for this little island- withstanding a history of famine in the 1930s, being occupied by the German soldiers during World War II, living through the dictatorships of Lenin and Stalin, a broken economic system under Soviet communism, and in recent history, the horrible Chernobyl nuclear disaster. (Chernobyl is only about 40km north of here, and Mariya’s mother and uncle lived with her grandparents in this apartment when it happened.)
As we walked through the quiet neighborhood, Mariya (or “Masha” as her family calls her) pointed out all of the familiar places from her childhood: her old apartment, only a quarter mile down the road from her grandparents. Her colorful elementary school with painted tires buried along the entryway. The rusty little playground that she used to play in as a child, with her secret hiding spot tucked away in the bushes. The peeling wooden bench her mom used to sit on and watch her, still painted in the same faded primary colors.
We watched the sun set along the river, and talked about plans for the next few days - visiting the city with her grandparents. Going to the opera. Meeting up with Mariya’s childhood friend, and her stepmother who picked us up from the airport. Kiev is a beautiful and historic city, and it sounds like we have a lot to look forward to!
Friday, June 18, 2010
On the Plane to Ukraine
An hour into the plane ride and I'm already feeling my travel bug jitter again.
On the way in, I picked up an "El Pais" - the Spain equivalent to the New York Times - and found my seat next to an elderly German couple who appeared flustered with the seatback TV screen. "Emmm...." the woman next to me groaned, then gestured at me desperately and pointed at her tv screen. Apparently, her entertainment system's version of Sex and the City was playing in English, with Arabic subtitles. Neither language was doing much for her.
We fiddled with hand gestures and buttons, trying to fix it to no avail. My German is non-existant, and her English was just as bad. About five minutes in, I had a crazy thought - what if they speak Spanish? "Hablas Espanol?" I asked them , skeptically. "SI!" she answered back with an enthusiastic sigh of relief, and suddenly a whole new world was opened up between us.
We figured out the whole subtitle mess, and ended up having a long conversation about how she and her husband were visiting San Fransisco from Munich, and were on their way now to Italy. They taught me a few words in German, (which will be good to remember for next week in Hamburg...) and I taught them how to say "thank you for your help" in English. By the time drink service had come around, I was feeling thouroughly proud of myself.
Running with this culturally savvy momentum, I decided to be ambitious and try out the plane's "learn to speak Russian" program on my seatback TV. I got past "please", "thank you", "good bye" and "I love you" with some sense of accomplishment... but then the game moved to level 2 and sentences like "Excuse me, can you please take a picture of me?" popped up, and I gave up. I couldn't even move my mouth to prounounce half the words, nonetheless distinguish between each of the syllables.
Looks like I'll be sticking to Spanish, and leave the Russian to Mariya. Wish me luck!
On the way in, I picked up an "El Pais" - the Spain equivalent to the New York Times - and found my seat next to an elderly German couple who appeared flustered with the seatback TV screen. "Emmm...." the woman next to me groaned, then gestured at me desperately and pointed at her tv screen. Apparently, her entertainment system's version of Sex and the City was playing in English, with Arabic subtitles. Neither language was doing much for her.
We fiddled with hand gestures and buttons, trying to fix it to no avail. My German is non-existant, and her English was just as bad. About five minutes in, I had a crazy thought - what if they speak Spanish? "Hablas Espanol?" I asked them , skeptically. "SI!" she answered back with an enthusiastic sigh of relief, and suddenly a whole new world was opened up between us.
We figured out the whole subtitle mess, and ended up having a long conversation about how she and her husband were visiting San Fransisco from Munich, and were on their way now to Italy. They taught me a few words in German, (which will be good to remember for next week in Hamburg...) and I taught them how to say "thank you for your help" in English. By the time drink service had come around, I was feeling thouroughly proud of myself.
Running with this culturally savvy momentum, I decided to be ambitious and try out the plane's "learn to speak Russian" program on my seatback TV. I got past "please", "thank you", "good bye" and "I love you" with some sense of accomplishment... but then the game moved to level 2 and sentences like "Excuse me, can you please take a picture of me?" popped up, and I gave up. I couldn't even move my mouth to prounounce half the words, nonetheless distinguish between each of the syllables.
Looks like I'll be sticking to Spanish, and leave the Russian to Mariya. Wish me luck!
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Only In Spain. What I miss. What I'm going to miss.
According to the Spanish...
don’t eat too much chocolate, or you’ll get zits. You have to wear socks in the house, because your feet will get cold. You can only wear sandals in the summertime. If your throat hurts, it’s because you drank too cold of water. Ham is healthy, and doesn’t have fat.
Little Idiosyncrasies...
In Spanish society, everyone has an opinion; from news opinion polls on minor social and political issues to T.V. shows where the audience discusses and fights about other people’s problems. The tendency to be lenient on time; everywhere you go clocks show a different time, and will chime to the same hour within 5 to 8 minutes of each other. Professors are almost always late and will take a long break, but will never let students out early. Food is meant to be eaten; you don’t leave leftovers on your plate, and you don’t ask what it is. It is part of the Senora's job to provide for her students, and “helping” her with dishes, making the bed, clearing the table, etc. is actually seen as an imposition rather than a help – it says “you’re not doing your job so I have to help you.” (Rather than the “I’m making your job easier by helping you” from an American mentality.) No animal part is too gross to consume, and knowing that you’re eating parts like tongue, intestine, and liver isn’t off-putting – it’s completely satisfying. Neighbors are family. Family is the most important element of life; even taxi drivers and cashiers know of your siblings, parents, and grandparents by first name. There is no such thing as privacy; the neighbors’ business is your business, and you have a right to share your opinion with whoever will listen. It’s completely normal to be over the age of 30 and still live at home. Stoplights are only suggestions – if it’s red, but there’s a break in heavy traffic, no street is too intimidating to walk across. For women, every occasion is an occasion for heels. For guys, when in doubt, pop the collar. Anytime before 2am is an early bedtime. 4am if it’s a weekend. There is no such thing as “too old” to go out to the bars and discotecas – even if the bartender is the age of your youngest grandchild. Service is meant to be slow. Life is meant to be enjoyed.
Only in Spain… do windows not have screens, and doors never function properly. Are pig legs in a store window seen as inviting. Are all the most popular songs, brand names, movies and television shows originated from United States, yet almost no one can speak English. Can you light up a cigarette in the middle of a crowded dance floor in a club. Is it completely normal to fail out a year of school because of too much partying. Do most jobs offer 2 or more months of vacation. Can you walk directly south down a street, then in ten minutes end up facing northeast. Is it perfectly acceptable to pull down your kid’s pants, and let them pee in public. Do complete strangers greet you with kisses on the cheek. Are middle-aged moms even hotter than college aged girls. Are there more drunk people out in the streets at 7am than at midnight. Can you visit a city for three months, and be fully welcomed as if it was your home.
Things I miss from home
My family. My close friends. Vegetables. Whole wheat bread. Good customer service. Quality medical care. Movies and television shows that aren’t dubbed. Fast and reliable internet. The smell of the ocean. Signs written in English. Inches, miles per hour and Fahrenheit. MEXICAN FOOD. Trader Joes. Fruit that’s washed. Riding a bike. Living with friends. Coffee and tea that comes in a to-go cup. Anything that comes “to go,” period. A shower with a full bathtub. Running paths that aren’t in the middle of a city. Cute dogs that don’t shit on the sidewalk. Cell phones that don’t cost as much as a car payment. Being proud instead of defensive to be recognized as American. Being a citizen, and not a foreigner.
Things I’m going to miss
Walking by 16th century cathedrals on my way to school. Salamanca’s architecture. Spirit. Sense of history. Getting chocolate soup with Cecily. All of our adventures, and WiFi dates in McDonalds. Meeting up in the plaza, under the clock at 11pm. Making friends with people from all around the world. Meeting boys with funny style and cute accents. Staying up until early hours of the morning. Things actually being open until early hours of the morning. My bed being made and all my meals being prepared for me. Mari Carmen’s amazing cooking. The lenient Spanish grading scale. Consistently getting dressed up. Being able to walk anywhere in the city in under 20 minutes. Not having to drive a car. Spending weekends in other countries. Planning extravagant trips a weekend before. Singing karaoke until 3am on a school night. Watching the sun set from atop a gothic cathedral. My little Spanish 6th graders. My name being pronounced “mee-chel.” Fresh bread. Exotic food I’ve never tasted. Being able to walking through a door, and accidentally discover a museum, or hidden statues that are over 600 years old. Not having to worry about time or deadlines. Being in a place where every new day is a novelty.
don’t eat too much chocolate, or you’ll get zits. You have to wear socks in the house, because your feet will get cold. You can only wear sandals in the summertime. If your throat hurts, it’s because you drank too cold of water. Ham is healthy, and doesn’t have fat.
Little Idiosyncrasies...
In Spanish society, everyone has an opinion; from news opinion polls on minor social and political issues to T.V. shows where the audience discusses and fights about other people’s problems. The tendency to be lenient on time; everywhere you go clocks show a different time, and will chime to the same hour within 5 to 8 minutes of each other. Professors are almost always late and will take a long break, but will never let students out early. Food is meant to be eaten; you don’t leave leftovers on your plate, and you don’t ask what it is. It is part of the Senora's job to provide for her students, and “helping” her with dishes, making the bed, clearing the table, etc. is actually seen as an imposition rather than a help – it says “you’re not doing your job so I have to help you.” (Rather than the “I’m making your job easier by helping you” from an American mentality.) No animal part is too gross to consume, and knowing that you’re eating parts like tongue, intestine, and liver isn’t off-putting – it’s completely satisfying. Neighbors are family. Family is the most important element of life; even taxi drivers and cashiers know of your siblings, parents, and grandparents by first name. There is no such thing as privacy; the neighbors’ business is your business, and you have a right to share your opinion with whoever will listen. It’s completely normal to be over the age of 30 and still live at home. Stoplights are only suggestions – if it’s red, but there’s a break in heavy traffic, no street is too intimidating to walk across. For women, every occasion is an occasion for heels. For guys, when in doubt, pop the collar. Anytime before 2am is an early bedtime. 4am if it’s a weekend. There is no such thing as “too old” to go out to the bars and discotecas – even if the bartender is the age of your youngest grandchild. Service is meant to be slow. Life is meant to be enjoyed.
Only in Spain… do windows not have screens, and doors never function properly. Are pig legs in a store window seen as inviting. Are all the most popular songs, brand names, movies and television shows originated from United States, yet almost no one can speak English. Can you light up a cigarette in the middle of a crowded dance floor in a club. Is it completely normal to fail out a year of school because of too much partying. Do most jobs offer 2 or more months of vacation. Can you walk directly south down a street, then in ten minutes end up facing northeast. Is it perfectly acceptable to pull down your kid’s pants, and let them pee in public. Do complete strangers greet you with kisses on the cheek. Are middle-aged moms even hotter than college aged girls. Are there more drunk people out in the streets at 7am than at midnight. Can you visit a city for three months, and be fully welcomed as if it was your home.
Things I miss from home
My family. My close friends. Vegetables. Whole wheat bread. Good customer service. Quality medical care. Movies and television shows that aren’t dubbed. Fast and reliable internet. The smell of the ocean. Signs written in English. Inches, miles per hour and Fahrenheit. MEXICAN FOOD. Trader Joes. Fruit that’s washed. Riding a bike. Living with friends. Coffee and tea that comes in a to-go cup. Anything that comes “to go,” period. A shower with a full bathtub. Running paths that aren’t in the middle of a city. Cute dogs that don’t shit on the sidewalk. Cell phones that don’t cost as much as a car payment. Being proud instead of defensive to be recognized as American. Being a citizen, and not a foreigner.
Things I’m going to miss
Walking by 16th century cathedrals on my way to school. Salamanca’s architecture. Spirit. Sense of history. Getting chocolate soup with Cecily. All of our adventures, and WiFi dates in McDonalds. Meeting up in the plaza, under the clock at 11pm. Making friends with people from all around the world. Meeting boys with funny style and cute accents. Staying up until early hours of the morning. Things actually being open until early hours of the morning. My bed being made and all my meals being prepared for me. Mari Carmen’s amazing cooking. The lenient Spanish grading scale. Consistently getting dressed up. Being able to walk anywhere in the city in under 20 minutes. Not having to drive a car. Spending weekends in other countries. Planning extravagant trips a weekend before. Singing karaoke until 3am on a school night. Watching the sun set from atop a gothic cathedral. My little Spanish 6th graders. My name being pronounced “mee-chel.” Fresh bread. Exotic food I’ve never tasted. Being able to walking through a door, and accidentally discover a museum, or hidden statues that are over 600 years old. Not having to worry about time or deadlines. Being in a place where every new day is a novelty.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Daily Life in Salamanca
Every morning I wake up, look outside my double paned window, and fall even more in love with the beautiful city sitting six stories below.
Life here has become a comforting routine – waking up to my jingling alarm clock, then walking down our narrow hallway in my PJs to find Mari Carmen in the kitchen, preparing my hot tea and two pieces of white bread with strawberry jelly on the side. We talk about the day’s weather, watch Spanish cartoons, and I head off to school, usually with an extra piece of fruit or croissant that she insists I take as an afternoon snack. “Vale, venga, ta luego mi hija” she says as I walk out the door.
My walk to school is always the same; down the big hill, past the bakeries and carnecerias on Avenida de Italia, around the corner past the roundabout and dancing Zamora fountain, then across the busy street onto Calle Zamora, where rows of storefront window displays catch the reflections of people walking by. Edifico San Boal, home of La Universidad de Salamanca’s “Cursos Internacionales” (international courses) is my destination; inside a heavy door and up three flights of concrete stairs to Aula 6, the small and cozy room where I have three of my four bi-weekly classes. History. Business. Marketing. Grammer.
Two hours of class, then break. A 40 cent tea or hot chocolate from the coffee machine on the first floor. 2pm lunch time, and all the way back home for “la comida” – my three course meal of the day with Miguel and Mari Carmen. I walk home. Take the elevator, up six floors. Turn down the hallway to letter “j,” then open the door, say “hola!” and take in the smell of whatever Mari Carmen has cooked for the day. Usually something involving ham.
Lunchtime, always sitting at the same tiny wooden table. Yellow basket full of fresh bread in the middle. Glass bowl full of salad, usually all for me. We eat and watch the off-color kitchen television, always either showing “La Buena Ley” (Spanish version of Jerry Springer plus Judge Judy) or “El Cocinero” (A goofy chef with all kinds of interesting Spanish recipes) while talking about our classes and plans for the day.
Afternoons full of exploring. Walking around the city, down familiar cobblestone streets. Getting a cup full of chocolate in the Plaza Mayor, or sitting on the second story of McDonalds to use their free WiFi. Sunset over the old Cathedral, the clock striking six, dramatic shadows leaning out from buildings along the alleyway. The Plaza lights turn on. The city becomes alive.
Home for dinner, out with friends. Meeting under the clock in the Plaza at 11pm, like always. No one is ever on time. Boots, tights, dresses, scarves. A cold wind, and we huddle together, arm in arm. Foreign looking students approach us with cards; drink specials at this bar. Free entry at another. We dance around from place to place, following wherever the night takes us.
Home by three. Blinds down, comfy bed. Eyes closed, remembering another perfect day in Salamanca, and dreaming of family and friends in another life, far away.
Life here has become a comforting routine – waking up to my jingling alarm clock, then walking down our narrow hallway in my PJs to find Mari Carmen in the kitchen, preparing my hot tea and two pieces of white bread with strawberry jelly on the side. We talk about the day’s weather, watch Spanish cartoons, and I head off to school, usually with an extra piece of fruit or croissant that she insists I take as an afternoon snack. “Vale, venga, ta luego mi hija” she says as I walk out the door.
My walk to school is always the same; down the big hill, past the bakeries and carnecerias on Avenida de Italia, around the corner past the roundabout and dancing Zamora fountain, then across the busy street onto Calle Zamora, where rows of storefront window displays catch the reflections of people walking by. Edifico San Boal, home of La Universidad de Salamanca’s “Cursos Internacionales” (international courses) is my destination; inside a heavy door and up three flights of concrete stairs to Aula 6, the small and cozy room where I have three of my four bi-weekly classes. History. Business. Marketing. Grammer.
Two hours of class, then break. A 40 cent tea or hot chocolate from the coffee machine on the first floor. 2pm lunch time, and all the way back home for “la comida” – my three course meal of the day with Miguel and Mari Carmen. I walk home. Take the elevator, up six floors. Turn down the hallway to letter “j,” then open the door, say “hola!” and take in the smell of whatever Mari Carmen has cooked for the day. Usually something involving ham.
Lunchtime, always sitting at the same tiny wooden table. Yellow basket full of fresh bread in the middle. Glass bowl full of salad, usually all for me. We eat and watch the off-color kitchen television, always either showing “La Buena Ley” (Spanish version of Jerry Springer plus Judge Judy) or “El Cocinero” (A goofy chef with all kinds of interesting Spanish recipes) while talking about our classes and plans for the day.
Afternoons full of exploring. Walking around the city, down familiar cobblestone streets. Getting a cup full of chocolate in the Plaza Mayor, or sitting on the second story of McDonalds to use their free WiFi. Sunset over the old Cathedral, the clock striking six, dramatic shadows leaning out from buildings along the alleyway. The Plaza lights turn on. The city becomes alive.
Home for dinner, out with friends. Meeting under the clock in the Plaza at 11pm, like always. No one is ever on time. Boots, tights, dresses, scarves. A cold wind, and we huddle together, arm in arm. Foreign looking students approach us with cards; drink specials at this bar. Free entry at another. We dance around from place to place, following wherever the night takes us.
Home by three. Blinds down, comfy bed. Eyes closed, remembering another perfect day in Salamanca, and dreaming of family and friends in another life, far away.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
(2) The Unexpected Hostel and Hiking Cinque Terre
“Room for Michelle”
So instead of hiking, we took the train to Vernazza, grabbed some dinner, (nothing is open because it’s the off season so we got microwaved pesto pasta in an Italian bar. It was still delicious.) then we walked up the cobblestone street to find our hostel.
Much to our surprise, when we finally found the door that was supposed to be our “hostel’s” entrance, there was a note on the door that looked like this:
We had no idea where Via S. Francesco was. Or even Via Ettore for that matter, which was supposed to be our way-finding street! But lucky for us, Vernazza is tiny and we eventually figured it out. After climbing up narrow stairs and through tiny alleyways, we found a wood and glass door with a note taped on it that said "Room For Michelle":
And we celebrated excessively, realizing that our 30 euro “hostel” was actually a fully furnished, 3 bed apartment. Note to all travelers: visit Cinque Terre in the off season!!!
The Hikes
As we went to bed that night, we decided that we should set our alarm fairly early to get a head start on our 12 mile hike the next day. I picked up my phone to set the alarm, and looked for the time: 6:45pm. There was no way. We were all in our pajamas, teeth brushed and ready to pass out, and it wasn’t even 7pm. How could that have been possible?!
But sadly, it was. And even sadder – we all passed out, snoozed the alarm the next morning, and ended up sleeping in until almost 9am. Fourteen hours of sleep! Needless to say, by the time we got up and finished our granola bar breakfast, we were very rested and ready to hit road.
Cinque Terre is a celebrated and well-recognized World Heritage Site, (along with my "hometown" Salamanca!) and even just looking at pictures of its dramatic colors and exquisite scenery, there’s no doubt that it’s a world-class destination. Each of the four hikes is completely unique, and the way we chose to go (from Monterosso in the north to Riomaggorio in the south) was the perfect trail, because it started off with a sweat dripping hard hike, then finished with an easy and coastal stroll in the park.
We have tons of pictures along the trail, but here’s a nice summary:
Monterosso to Vernazza: It begins with about 300 stairs, straight up. Every hundred or so we’d turn around and have to take a picture – until we realized how even strikingly more incredible the view was 100 stairs higher. The paths were narrow and precarious, and we definitely balanced our way across reinforced stone walls and Cliffside paths that would’ve been impossible to navigate in the dark. The path was very lush and green, with clovers, wildflowers, and beautiful vineyards as we climbed higher and higher through the hills. From every angle you can see for miles up and down the Italian coast, imagining the ruffle on the top of the Italian boot formed by the exact shape of the jagged coastline. As we reached the end, we came across a sign that said “no high heels on the path.” We laughed because it seemed obvious – until we ran into half a dozen Italian women in Stilettos. Oh, those crazy Italians.
Vernazza to Corniglia: This hike was mellower, but still a decent challenge. We climbed up more steep stairs, and came across several houses that appeared to be rest stops, where people sell lemonade and snacks during the summer rush. This path reached higher and higher up into the mountain, and at one point we saw a sign that said “beach path” with an arrow pointing down, which I wanted to follow until I realized that we were several thousand feet above sea level. Even despite, Reid and I climbed down about 100 feet (via rope/hose) and got a beautiful view of the coastline from this strange side path. After that, we continued down the mountain, and into more lush greenery – what appeared to be a forest, with an old bridge covered in vines that you cross to enter into the city. Corniglia was perched atop the mountain, overlooking the sea (as opposed to at sea level like the others) and had a very quaint and friendly feel to it. This beautiful poem that Angela helped me translate (thank you Angela :) truly says it all:
Stranger or Italian
If you arrive from near or far
to my beloved country,
look at the infinite blue sea
like the love of his creator.
Visit the old church
With its snow-white and laced rose window,
Listen to the jingle of its
Bells expanding in the air,
And say hello to God the creator.
Observe the gilded grapevines
Of the verdant vines,
Breathe in the antique smells of the must,
Arrive, until the balcony of Santa Maria,
Let slide your glance,
Liberate your spirit
And your emotions,
You will then understand
What God
has given to my country.
Corniglia to Manarola: The next stretch started out strong, with exactly 300 brick stairs leading down the mountain. (I know this because they’re numbered in tens, so you know how many stairs you have left to hike.) From the top, we rested for a minute and just enjoyed the breathtaking beauty of the coast. We took hundreds of photos, and as I’ve found more than once while abroad, pictures can barely even capture piece of the incredible beauty. We made it to the bottom of the stairs, and strolled easily along the coast - pausing for pictures, and to watch the big waves roll in along shore.
Manarola to Riomaggiorio: This final stretch of our hike was by far the easiest, and so of course the most popular destination among Cinque Terre visitors. Known as “Villa Del Amor”or “the walk of love,” there are closed locks all over the place - on gates, benches and fences, put there by years worth of lovey couples who visit the Villa Del Amor to set their lock and throw away the key. (Signifying their love for one another, as the locks are permanently sealed together... just like their hearts. Awwww, cute, right?)
...All three of us being relatively recently single, we laughed and gagged a little at the sappyness, but couldn’t pretend like it wasn’t pretty dang heartwarming. Cecily and I skipped optimistically through the tunnel of love, (grafittied with poems, pictures, and traditional Italian names like "Guiseppi <3 Cecilia") and laughed hysterically at the tomb of “cupido,” who is justifiably “buried” along the Villa del Amor. By the end of the road, all three of us were so proud to have reached our final city – knowing that we'd made it all fifteen miles, and hoping that someday we too will have locks here of our own.
So instead of hiking, we took the train to Vernazza, grabbed some dinner, (nothing is open because it’s the off season so we got microwaved pesto pasta in an Italian bar. It was still delicious.) then we walked up the cobblestone street to find our hostel.
Much to our surprise, when we finally found the door that was supposed to be our “hostel’s” entrance, there was a note on the door that looked like this:
We had no idea where Via S. Francesco was. Or even Via Ettore for that matter, which was supposed to be our way-finding street! But lucky for us, Vernazza is tiny and we eventually figured it out. After climbing up narrow stairs and through tiny alleyways, we found a wood and glass door with a note taped on it that said "Room For Michelle":
And we celebrated excessively, realizing that our 30 euro “hostel” was actually a fully furnished, 3 bed apartment. Note to all travelers: visit Cinque Terre in the off season!!!
The Hikes
As we went to bed that night, we decided that we should set our alarm fairly early to get a head start on our 12 mile hike the next day. I picked up my phone to set the alarm, and looked for the time: 6:45pm. There was no way. We were all in our pajamas, teeth brushed and ready to pass out, and it wasn’t even 7pm. How could that have been possible?!
But sadly, it was. And even sadder – we all passed out, snoozed the alarm the next morning, and ended up sleeping in until almost 9am. Fourteen hours of sleep! Needless to say, by the time we got up and finished our granola bar breakfast, we were very rested and ready to hit road.
Cinque Terre is a celebrated and well-recognized World Heritage Site, (along with my "hometown" Salamanca!) and even just looking at pictures of its dramatic colors and exquisite scenery, there’s no doubt that it’s a world-class destination. Each of the four hikes is completely unique, and the way we chose to go (from Monterosso in the north to Riomaggorio in the south) was the perfect trail, because it started off with a sweat dripping hard hike, then finished with an easy and coastal stroll in the park.
We have tons of pictures along the trail, but here’s a nice summary:
Monterosso to Vernazza: It begins with about 300 stairs, straight up. Every hundred or so we’d turn around and have to take a picture – until we realized how even strikingly more incredible the view was 100 stairs higher. The paths were narrow and precarious, and we definitely balanced our way across reinforced stone walls and Cliffside paths that would’ve been impossible to navigate in the dark. The path was very lush and green, with clovers, wildflowers, and beautiful vineyards as we climbed higher and higher through the hills. From every angle you can see for miles up and down the Italian coast, imagining the ruffle on the top of the Italian boot formed by the exact shape of the jagged coastline. As we reached the end, we came across a sign that said “no high heels on the path.” We laughed because it seemed obvious – until we ran into half a dozen Italian women in Stilettos. Oh, those crazy Italians.
Vernazza to Corniglia: This hike was mellower, but still a decent challenge. We climbed up more steep stairs, and came across several houses that appeared to be rest stops, where people sell lemonade and snacks during the summer rush. This path reached higher and higher up into the mountain, and at one point we saw a sign that said “beach path” with an arrow pointing down, which I wanted to follow until I realized that we were several thousand feet above sea level. Even despite, Reid and I climbed down about 100 feet (via rope/hose) and got a beautiful view of the coastline from this strange side path. After that, we continued down the mountain, and into more lush greenery – what appeared to be a forest, with an old bridge covered in vines that you cross to enter into the city. Corniglia was perched atop the mountain, overlooking the sea (as opposed to at sea level like the others) and had a very quaint and friendly feel to it. This beautiful poem that Angela helped me translate (thank you Angela :) truly says it all:
Stranger or ItalianIf you arrive from near or far
to my beloved country,
look at the infinite blue sea
like the love of his creator.
Visit the old church
With its snow-white and laced rose window,
Listen to the jingle of its
Bells expanding in the air,
And say hello to God the creator.
Observe the gilded grapevines
Of the verdant vines,
Breathe in the antique smells of the must,
Arrive, until the balcony of Santa Maria,
Let slide your glance,
Liberate your spirit
And your emotions,
You will then understand
What God
has given to my country.
Corniglia to Manarola: The next stretch started out strong, with exactly 300 brick stairs leading down the mountain. (I know this because they’re numbered in tens, so you know how many stairs you have left to hike.) From the top, we rested for a minute and just enjoyed the breathtaking beauty of the coast. We took hundreds of photos, and as I’ve found more than once while abroad, pictures can barely even capture piece of the incredible beauty. We made it to the bottom of the stairs, and strolled easily along the coast - pausing for pictures, and to watch the big waves roll in along shore.
Manarola to Riomaggiorio: This final stretch of our hike was by far the easiest, and so of course the most popular destination among Cinque Terre visitors. Known as “Villa Del Amor”or “the walk of love,” there are closed locks all over the place - on gates, benches and fences, put there by years worth of lovey couples who visit the Villa Del Amor to set their lock and throw away the key. (Signifying their love for one another, as the locks are permanently sealed together... just like their hearts. Awwww, cute, right?)
...All three of us being relatively recently single, we laughed and gagged a little at the sappyness, but couldn’t pretend like it wasn’t pretty dang heartwarming. Cecily and I skipped optimistically through the tunnel of love, (grafittied with poems, pictures, and traditional Italian names like "Guiseppi <3 Cecilia") and laughed hysterically at the tomb of “cupido,” who is justifiably “buried” along the Villa del Amor. By the end of the road, all three of us were so proud to have reached our final city – knowing that we'd made it all fifteen miles, and hoping that someday we too will have locks here of our own.
The Cinque Terre Adventure Part (1) Getting There & The Train Incident
For the first time in my entire life, I didn’t eat turkey on Thanksgiving this year. Instead, while my family was gathered around a picnic table thousands of miles away, I sat on the tile floor of the Madrid airport with two good friends, eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and waiting for it to be 5am so we could finally check in for our flight to Italy.
Getting There
Although the excitement for our adventure helped distract us somewhat from our homesickness, all three of us (Cecily from Colorado, Reid from Arkensas, and me) couldn’t completely forget that it was still Thanksgiving. Knowing that on the other side of the world there was an empty space for us at the family dinner table, we were all very nostalgic. Not just for the food - eating turkey instead of pig leg, and pumpkin pie instead of paella - what we all missed most was our family. We talked about them all night; what they were probably doing at that very moment, wondering what kind of stuffing Dad had made this year, and recounting all the funny holiday traditions we used to have when we were kids. The more we talked about it, the more we realized how scarily adult it was for us to be away from home for such a major holiday. And how ironic, that of all places in the world to be, the three of us were spending our 21st Thanksgiving in a Spanish airport terminal on our way to Milan.
Indeed, we do have a lot to be thankful for.
The hours ticked by, and finally it was time for the check-in, followed by the usual mad dash to the departure gate. (Seats are first come first serve, and people get aggressive over claiming their window seat.) We boarded our plane, and the next eight hours became a traveling blur – drifting in and out of sleep, landing in Milan. Taking a shuttle from the airplane to the terminal. (It was about 100 feet away, and still they had a shuttle. Crazy Italians.) A bus from the terminal to Grand Central Station. A train from Milan to Monterroso. And finally, by 4pm, we had reached the first of our five cities in the beautiful region of Cinque Terre, Italia.
The Train… Incident.
Our original plan entailed arriving in Monterroso around 4pm (check) then hiking to Vernazza, the second costal city where we had booked our hostel for the first night. We’d read that this hike was the hardest of the four, but figured that we could do it in under two hours, and get to our hostel by about 6pm. We were discussing this plan as we stepped off the train – just as I realized that my camera wasn’t in my purse. I figured that I must have dropped it while walking from my seat, so I handed my purse and backpack to Cecily and Reid to double check them, and I ran back into the train. Immediately I saw it – my camera had dropped about 20 feet away from the exit, so I grabbed it and sprinted back toward the closing doors… right as the train began to roll away. I knocked on the glass, and watched as Cecily and Reid disappeared from view, waving their arms and trying and stop the conductor. But there was no use. I was on my way to La Spezia, five cities south of Monterroso.
An hour later, after using broken Spanish-Italian to explain my situation to the conductor, (how do you say “I have no money, and no ticket, but I need to get back to Monterroso NOW!” in Italian?) I somehow managed to get a free ticket back, and reunited with Cecily and Reid who figured I’d make my way back eventually. Thanks again, guys.
But in the end, my little mishap worked quite well in our favor, because what we didn’t realize is that Italy is south of Spain – hence, the sun sets earlier. Our hike to Vernazza was quoted at 2 hours and we gave ourselves less than one before we’d have to do some extreme trekking in the dark. Not the smartest idea. Also, we were all running on a cumulative less than 2 hours of sleep, so we questioned whether or not we would’ve even made it, after realizing the next day how difficult the hike really was.
Getting There
Although the excitement for our adventure helped distract us somewhat from our homesickness, all three of us (Cecily from Colorado, Reid from Arkensas, and me) couldn’t completely forget that it was still Thanksgiving. Knowing that on the other side of the world there was an empty space for us at the family dinner table, we were all very nostalgic. Not just for the food - eating turkey instead of pig leg, and pumpkin pie instead of paella - what we all missed most was our family. We talked about them all night; what they were probably doing at that very moment, wondering what kind of stuffing Dad had made this year, and recounting all the funny holiday traditions we used to have when we were kids. The more we talked about it, the more we realized how scarily adult it was for us to be away from home for such a major holiday. And how ironic, that of all places in the world to be, the three of us were spending our 21st Thanksgiving in a Spanish airport terminal on our way to Milan.
Indeed, we do have a lot to be thankful for.
The hours ticked by, and finally it was time for the check-in, followed by the usual mad dash to the departure gate. (Seats are first come first serve, and people get aggressive over claiming their window seat.) We boarded our plane, and the next eight hours became a traveling blur – drifting in and out of sleep, landing in Milan. Taking a shuttle from the airplane to the terminal. (It was about 100 feet away, and still they had a shuttle. Crazy Italians.) A bus from the terminal to Grand Central Station. A train from Milan to Monterroso. And finally, by 4pm, we had reached the first of our five cities in the beautiful region of Cinque Terre, Italia.
The Train… Incident.
Our original plan entailed arriving in Monterroso around 4pm (check) then hiking to Vernazza, the second costal city where we had booked our hostel for the first night. We’d read that this hike was the hardest of the four, but figured that we could do it in under two hours, and get to our hostel by about 6pm. We were discussing this plan as we stepped off the train – just as I realized that my camera wasn’t in my purse. I figured that I must have dropped it while walking from my seat, so I handed my purse and backpack to Cecily and Reid to double check them, and I ran back into the train. Immediately I saw it – my camera had dropped about 20 feet away from the exit, so I grabbed it and sprinted back toward the closing doors… right as the train began to roll away. I knocked on the glass, and watched as Cecily and Reid disappeared from view, waving their arms and trying and stop the conductor. But there was no use. I was on my way to La Spezia, five cities south of Monterroso.
An hour later, after using broken Spanish-Italian to explain my situation to the conductor, (how do you say “I have no money, and no ticket, but I need to get back to Monterroso NOW!” in Italian?) I somehow managed to get a free ticket back, and reunited with Cecily and Reid who figured I’d make my way back eventually. Thanks again, guys.
But in the end, my little mishap worked quite well in our favor, because what we didn’t realize is that Italy is south of Spain – hence, the sun sets earlier. Our hike to Vernazza was quoted at 2 hours and we gave ourselves less than one before we’d have to do some extreme trekking in the dark. Not the smartest idea. Also, we were all running on a cumulative less than 2 hours of sleep, so we questioned whether or not we would’ve even made it, after realizing the next day how difficult the hike really was.
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