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.

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.

(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.

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.

Flamenco and La Alhambra in Granada

By the time we were ready to leave for Granada, our journey was approaching the ninth day mark, and we were all exhausted and re-wearing the few clothes that we’d brought to Morocco for the second or third time in a row. A rough bus ride on narrow and winding mountain roads between Malaga to Granada didn’t exactly help anyone’s spirits – that is, until we arrived at our designated meeting point, which was a gorgeous four star hotel in downtown Granada that ISA had booked for the weekend to commemorate our last big school excursion. Cecily and were placed as roommates, (as always) and when we opened the room to our door and saw a decked out bathroom and two king sized beds, neither of us could contain our excitement. I nearly hit the ceiling jumping on the beds, and both of us took excessively long showers to celebrate the existence of full sized bathtubs and HOT (not just luke-warm!) water.

Over the weekend we toured all through the gorgeous city with our program advisors, and learned a lot more about Granada’s history in relation to the rest of Spain. Until the end of the 15th century Granada was under Arabic rule, so most of the architecture and a huge part of the region’s culture have a strong Arabic and Muslim influence. The mix of Spanish and middle-eastern culture was fascinating: we walked through the city’s Arabic marketplace, (not quite to the level of Fez, but Granada’s had WAY better prices) went to a tea and hookah bar, (they infuse honey into the spices to make it extra sweet – best tea I’ve ever had!) and visited La Alhambra, a preeminent 8th century royal palace overlooking the city that has miles of winding gardens, hand carved marble and wood architecture, and thirteen centuries worth of rich and fascinating history.

Our last night, we went to an authentic Flamenco show in an intimate little venue on the edge of the city. Despite the informal set up, (the dancers just casually walked onto stage, talked for awhile, then began playing their instruments and dancing when they felt like it) the performance was absolutely incredible, and exceeded my already high expectations. There were five dancers – two men and three women, and they all had very distinct and passionate styles. Here is a video of my favorite dancer, the man who we aptly titled “the epic flamenco dancer”

Malaga and the Costa del Sol

After a fully exhausting experience in Morocco, ten of us from my program decided to break off and spend two days in Malaga (Thursday and Friday) before heading back up to Granada (Friday night through Sunday) to meet up with the rest of our group for our final school excursion with ISA.

Looking back on a full week of squatty potties, uncomfortable bus rides and questionable Moroccan food, it was an absolute oasis to arrive in beautiful Malaga, a coastal resort town in the south of Spain along the Costa del Sol that is/was home to the handsome Antonio Banderas and the one and only, Pablo Picasso.

We arrived at the hostel my friend Theo booked, and I was immediately taken aback when I saw the name: “La Casa Mata,” which literally translates in English to “The Kill House.” We walked in, and expecting to see red splattered walls and backlights, I was surprised to a find a bright, neon painted living room and a very welcoming Spanish man in his late 50’s who was a perfect throwback to the 1970s era. (He had super shaggy, long hair, was blaring classic rock music at the check-in desk, and wore a leather jacket, fitted jeans, and sandals.) He showed us up three flights of stairs to our room full of bunk beds, and within a few hours we were all very comfortable and happy with our quirky little hostel.

The next two days went by quickly – during the day we visited the Picasso museum, (incredible; it showcased some of Picasso’s original work from when he was 15 years old, all the way through the final pieces he did in his early 70s) explored the beautiful Alcazaba, (an 8th century castle that covers an entire hill overlooking the city) and of course, enjoyed the warm sunshine and spent time just relaxing all together on the beach.

See below for the view of Malaga from the top of the Alcazaba:
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Chapter Three: The Sahara Desert and Why Morocco Moved Me

When I imagined all the amazing experiences I’d have while studying abroad in Spain, riding on the back of a camel and snowboarding down sand dunes weren’t exactly on my list. That being said, by the time we’d left Fez and headed to the edge of the great Sahara, I was so culture shocked by this whole excursion that I wouldn’t expect anything less.

Day or night, the Sahara Desert is captivatingly beautiful in a strange and extraterrestrial kind of way. Just imagine thousands and thousands of miles worth of piled sand, untouched by human footprints, which changes colors and patterns with the wind and the sunlight throughout the day. When we first arrived it was several hours past sunset, and the sand was glowing a dark red beneath the full moon and a deep blue sky. Immediately after putting our stuff inside the tents, the girls and I went to explore – running up hills of sand and cartwheeling down, then hiking up to the top of the biggest dunes, and burying our feet beneath the sand where the temperature was still warm from the midday sun.

Sitting on the edge of a steep dune, the six of us buried ourselves in sand, and gazed up at the bright stars, which looked so much closer and brighter than any of the stars I’ve ever seen on my continent. Something about the simplicity, and emptiness of this place was incredibly peaceful. How interesting that a vast desert could be a kind of natural haven from the complexity of the rest of the world.

The next morning, we woke up at dusk, and hiked into the desert with the bereberes (the people who live in the desert and run the tourist camp – pronounced “berry berries” by the Spanish) where we found a good view from the top of a sand dune to watch the sun rise. The formerly red sand turned a bright gold, then faded into yellow and orange as the sun rose higher into the early morning sky. Everyone tried to capture it in pictures, but quickly realized that it was futile. A 4 x 6 in. photo couldn’t even begin to touch the beauty that our eyes and senses were taking in.

After the sun had officially risen, we headed back to camp and “befriended” one of the Berbers named Ouhana Mohamed, who was very outgoing, and immediately started conversation with us as we were walking. Most of the Berbers get less than a middle school education, but speak five to six different languages, which they pick up from tourists that visit the area. Ouhana was no exception – he spoke Arabic, Italian, some German, some Chineese, and pretty good Spanish, which was our language of choice. So after pulling us feet first down a few sand dunes, he brought us to a larger dune, let us try on his traditional dress and took our pictures… then pulled out a backpack full of jewelry and fossil rocks that he said he would sell to us for “muy buen precio” (“very good price.”)

Once we returned to camp, the day became all kinds of eventful, with a camel ride through the desert, hiking up giant dunes, visiting a Saharan village, and an evening dance party with the Berbers. A lot of these experiences I got on film – so here’s a few tidbits for you to enjoy:

First, introducing my camel, Bob Marley. (He came pre-named.)



Lucky for us, Bob was a trooper and didn’t throw a fit when we tried to get up on him. (Unlike some of the others, who dealt with pissy and bucking camels. Not a fun experience, from what it looked like.)



While riding the camel, Cecily and I decided that it was necessary to do a rendition of Aladdin’s “Arabian Nights” song. We might have made up half the words, and missed the correct key by several notes… but for memories sake, I suppose it’s still worth posting :p

VIDEO

After riding Bob out into the dunes, we began our big and very challenging hike up to the top of the largest sand dunes, where we could see the border between Morocco and Algeria. If you’ve ever walked or ran on the beach, you have some idea as to how this hike must have felt – except instead of walking flat on several feet of sand, we hiked straight up a good quarter mile high sandcastle that would occasionally avalanche if you got the footing wrong. Needless to say, reaching the very top was a true accomplishment.



…And then of course Noele our program guide brought a snowboard, which I quickly pounced on the opportunity to try out from the top of the dune. There wasn’t much time to do anything fancy, so I just found the highest part of the dune that I could, strapped in, and went for it. Sadly, the video doesn’t do it much justice – but let me tell you. Snowboarding down a sand dune in the Sahara Desert is at the very top of the “life accomplishments” list in my book. :)



By the time we did our village tour everyone was absolutely exhausted, dehydrated (they didn’t tell us we’d be leaving all day, so almost no one brought water) and very ready to head back to camp. That being said, the two hour long tour of the village was incredibly sad and eye opening, and really gave us a view into the reality of life in a developing country. I didn’t get many pictures, but the few I have are very telling – skinny little kids with mismatched clothing, a school house with cracked walls and bare, exposed light bulbs, big Coca Cola signs at the village hub, which was clearly designed for tourists to buy cheap candy and soda for 10 durhams a piece. (10 durhams = 1 euro = roughly $1.50.)

At the end of our tour we walked a mile and a half back to camp, listening to the midday prayer over blaring speakers that echoed it hauntingly through the desert.

In my first in these series of posts, I mentioned that Morocco was hard to describe – it both moved, and deeply bothered me in ways that I didn’t expect, and am still trying to find words to explain. My friend Kevin is a fellow aspiring journalist, and did an EXCELLENT job capturing some of these feelings by interviewing people on our program, and taking video throughout our trip. Watch his video, (made much more professionally than my vlogs :) ) and hopefully you’ll get a better sense of our whole experience.

Chapter Two: The Ancient City of Fez

I am thoroughly convinced that Disney found its inspiration for the movie "Aladdin" after visiting the city of Fez.

From a birds eye view, the city's winding maze of streets are completely hidden between thousands of ivory and sand colored buildings that flood the valley floor. Looking down at Fez with foreign eyes, the world's largest Arabic marketplace (known as the "Medina") is nothing but a cluster of indistinguishable buildings; the perfect hiding place for a handsome, princess-seeking convict - or in our case, a collection of aggressive and skilled salesmen, ready to welcome the parade of American visitors with foreign credit cards.





From the minute we stepped foot on Fez's hot, dusty, streets, it was clear that our presence was going to make a big stir across town. As we gathered outside our bus, children with cheap jewelry and key chains immediately ran up to us, saying "good price! good price!" and a large crowd of men gathered in the chairs out front of the nearby cafe, saying things like "hello beautiful" and "oh, the women. I can smell the honey coming...." to the girls as we walked by.
[In my video of us walking through the Medina, you can hear the man I pass by saying that, if you listen really closely.]

Even with a "traditional Moroccan" tour guide, as 75 young Americans, wearing clearly foreign and out of place clothing in the middle of an Arabic country, (women traditionally wear Burkahs in Morocco, so our jeans and long sleeve shirts were our attempt at being modest) it was absolutely impossible for us not to make a huge spectacle of ourselves.

Following our tour guide (who wore the traditional dress-like business uniform, but carried a brand new blackberry that rang to the tone of "I've got a Feeling" by the Black Eyed Peas) we entered the labyrinth of marketplace streets in a long, crowded line, and were navigated through the ancient maze of streets, into pre-chosen shopping locations throughout the city. (Check out my video of us walking through the Medina, below.)




Although we were given glimpses of the "real" marketplace - fish stands, fruit and vegetable displays, countless shops with handmade pottery and silverware, or freestanding stores full of nicknack's - our tour brought us specifically to several of the more touristy locations, where ready salesmen told us all about their preeminent products, and mentioned the word "discount," using every synonym possible. At every store, we were led to believe that the prices were completely subjective to bargaining with the help of our "guide," (who we later realized got commission, of course) so coming in with this naive trust, it took a few stores before we realized that there were clear tactics that the salesmen were skilled in, and ready to use on us.





The very first store we visited was incredible - a six-story leather shop, with purses, shoes, bean bag shells, wallets, jackets, and every item you can imagine in leather, hanging from the walls and ceilings. From the sixth story balcony, we looked out below at the sight of a famous National Geographic photo: the leather pools, where all of the exorbitant leather goods are made and colored by shirtless male workers, sitting in the hot sun, and working in pools of colorful dye. The man who owned the shop was young - not much older than us, (his father owned the business and recently passed it down to him) and he was dressed impeccably in freshly ironed Armani jeans, shiny leather shoes, and a black leather jacket. He pointed over the balcony, and briefly mentioned the workers - emphasizing more the quality of the dye, and clear intricacy of his store's handy work. I later asked our guide, and found out that the workers are paid by the day, not the hour, and work 12-14 hour days for a very low wage. (Need to confirm this, but the original estimate was about 1 to 2 American dollars per hour.)

That really put alot into perspective when I was sold (without being given much of a choice, after they quoted me a price then literally grabbed my credit card out of my hand) a handmade, tailored leather jacket, for what equates to nearly a week's worth of labor in these men's lives.

After the leather shop, we visited an apothecary, a linen and dress shop, and a carpet store, where we were given the most direct and obvious sales pitch of the day. The carpet store was huge, with giant carpets draping down from three stories up, and filling entire rooms. We sat down in the center of the building, and were handed super sweet mint tea (´an aphrodesiac´ they were quick to point out) while listening to the owner´s 20 minute sales pitch about why we should buy a carpet. Highlights include: how our parents would be so proud of us for making a ¨valuable financial investment,¨ how carpets are great for ¨the jiggy jiggy¨ (as he put it), how America and Morocco are good friends, (Morocco was the first country to officially recognize the US in1776) and my favorite: how women are financially equal, so we have just as much a right to buy a carpet as any man.

The First Chapter: Getting to Morocco

When I first signed up for the ISA excursion to Morocco, I had no idea what I was getting myself into. Our program director gave me a map, a short itinerary and suggested packing list, and attatched a small warning in the footnote: " habrá muchas horas en el autobús" ("There will be many hours in a tour bus.")

Three weeks later, I woke up in a squished fetal position against the glass window of our tour bus, and looked down at my cell phone to discover that it was exactly 6:00am: twelve hours after we had first left Salamanca with backpacks full of granola bars, water, and extra toilet paper; ready and optimistic for the adventure ahead.

As the bus rumbled to slow stop, everyone gathered their bags and shuffled half asleep into the ferry port which marked our halfway point (aka 12 more hours to go) before reaching our destination in the city of Fez. The initial sense of enthusiasm in everyone’s expression had by then turned into tired and grumpy apathy, until our hour-long ferry ride across the Strait of Gibraltar ended with a funny realization: we had reached the continent of Africa, but were still in Spain. (I don’t know about you, but I never studied geography close enough to realize that Spain had territory in Africa.)

Bribery at the Border

All 150 American ISA students (50 in each group) paraded out from the ferries, and we all hopped back onto our three giant tour busses to head toward the border of Morocco which was 45 minutes away. As we got closer along the coast, our program director warned us that we were not allowed to take pictures anywhere near the border (you’ll be thrown in jail) and that normally, it can take upwards of three to four hours for a group our size to get through. Lucky for us, they slipped some extra money to the border patrol in our first few passports, (yay for bribery!) and Carlos [program director] assured us that it would speed up the process to let us through between one and two hours at the most.

Somewhere before the border I fell asleep, but was woken up about an hour later to a loud beeping noise, and Cecily shaking me and telling me to sit up and take the blanket off my head. I opened my eyes and saw a man dressed in an official looking uniform with a strange laser gun-like contraption in his hand, pointing it straight at the forehead of the girl sitting in the seat behind me. At first I was really scared – then Cecily explained that it was a thermometer, taking people’s temperatures to make sure that none of us had the swine flu. Although by that point I was recovered, a week before I had been sick with a 102 temperature, so I was really glad that he didn't have patience and skipped me. In a little over an hour we were through the border stop, and Carlos was right: after seeing the money, they skimmed over our passports and cordially let us through.

Reflections from the Window

The second we crossed the border, it was very clear that we weren’t in Spain anymore. The style of dress completely changed, from Spain's fancy heels and tights look to patterned burkahs and flat, leather shoes. All the signs and building names were written in Arabic and French, and the only english to be found were the ads everywhere for stores selling Coca Cola. Right at the border, there were nearly 100 taxi cabs sitting and waiting to drive people, lined up next to a hill covered in burning trash.

As we drove further away from the city and into the countryside, more drastic contrasts began. Men would ride by on small scooters, with women covered in colorful burkahs, hanging onto a seat built on the back end. As our tour bus passed by on one side of the road, men with donkeys trotted past on the other, and children with bare feet would run alongside the trash covered hills toward our busses, waving and putting their hands out to beg. Throughout the trip, Cecily and I adopted the phrase TIA: “This is Africa” from a Swahili rap artist who used the phrase to describe the poverty and disparity in third world countries that shocks first world citizens, and is beyond explanation. From inside our glass window, this was our first experience with TIA – the first of many more to come.

Peeing Behind Shrubs and Sheep

Four hours into the border, I woke up again from my seemingly constant nap, but this time because I had to pee. At least half the bus agreed – and the bus driver pulled off to the side of the road, and said something along the lines of “good luck” as we stared out the window to a completely flat and uncovered stretch of dirt, with ankle high desert shrubs that were our closest hope for any kind of privacy.

In honor of this experience, I decided to take a video:

A few hours later, we took another notable bathroom stop in the middle of a valley, right where a pastor had led his giant group of sheep. I felt terrible for the man – he had clearly spent a long time getting the entire group together, and looked pretty bewildered as over a hundred loud and strangely dressed foreigners poured out of tour busses and chased his sheep into all directions while finding a place to pee. We didn't have much of a choice to go anywhere else - but I decided just to hold it and wait by the bus with a couple others who felt morally wrong to disturb the poor sheep. In the end it didn't matter much - the flock scattered and we left. But something about the whole experience really struck me.

Looking Out From the Balcony

By the time we’d reached Fez it was nearly dinner, something like twenty six hours after we first got on our bus from Spain. Everyone was exhausted, and our hotel beds felt like clouds compared to the rigid bus seats that barely recline. Looking out from the balcony of our hotel, Fez by night was absolutely beautiful. Colored fountains and palm trees were lit up between buildings with traditional Arabic architecture, and in the central square, a web of white Christmas-esque lights draped over a wide, sandstone colored walkway. Cecily and I wished that we could join the boys and go explore, but watching women walk by in completely covered clothing, followed closely by their male escorts, we immediately realized that we were in a very different country. One that wasn’t safe for us, where we were not equal. We watched from the balcony, and wondered what the next few days would be like; entering a completely different culture, and stepping into a world that we knew and understand little about.

Busses, Taxis, Ferries, Jeeps and Camels: Making Sense of It All

Eleven days later, and I've never been so thankful to return home to my warm and cozy bed, with Mari Carmen's home cooking, toilets I can sit on, hot showers, drinkable water, and folded, CLEAN laundrey that doesn't smell like cigarette smoke and the Sahara desert.

The last week and a half was nothing short of an epic adventure, with over 70 hours of traveling by bus from Salamanca to Madrid, Madrid to Malaga, Malaga to Morocco, Morocco to the border of Algeria, then back again in reverse, plus a three day excursion to Granada somewhere inbetween. Three days later and counting, I'm still recovering from it all... looking back at pictures, sorting out a whirlwind of strong emotions, trying desperately to get my mind into miterm mode, and meanwhile, coming to terms with the fact that my adventure is already over halfway done.

Six and a half weeks in, my body is ready to rest. My mind is working on overtime to make sense of it all. Every day is a beautiful adventure, but silent moments remind me of home. The other reality far away, with so many people I love and miss, that I only feel connected to by periodic phone calls and stalking tagged pictures on facebook.

My internal compass went haywire the minute I stepped on the plane from America, and now it's seeking vengance. What used to be strange and foreign to me about Spain, is now a comforting routine - by contrast of living out of a backpack, eating "granola" bars, and sleeping on public transportation.

My crazy adventure from last two weeks has so many pieces to it - incredable experiences, funny stories, serious realizations about life - and there's so much I want to share with you. SO, although it might take awhile to finnish, (each video alone takes 30-45 minutes to upload on Spanish internet :( ) I am going to dedicate the next several blogs to giving you a window into this foreign world I've discovered, and all the little pieces of it that are changing the way I see the world.

The Midday Prayer

Six times per day in most Muslim countries, an arabic prayer is blasted through the streets of every major city, echoing from giant bullhorns and speakers atop houses and mosques.

This video was taken from the rooftop of a carpet store in Fez (central Morocco) at 2pm on Halloween afternoon.

My Little Family

Our family just got a little bigger, with the addition of Miguel – an 18 year old freshmen at the University, who is from a city called Galicia about 4 hours north of here. He’s an absolute sweetheart, and will be sleeping in the living room for the next week until Marissa moves out and back to Switzerland on Friday. :(

Although he doesn’t seem to mind, I feel bad for poor “baby brother” Miguel, (as I’ve nicknamed him) as he just moved away from home for the first time, and now is living in a house full of four loud, sarcastic and inquisitive women. Dinnertime conversation tonight revolved around how good looking the Spanish futbol players are (I argued that most of them are pretty hot, but Judith pointed out a few that contradicted my case) and I noticed about halfway through that he was just smirking, and probably thinking to himself “how did I end up here again?”

But in the little more than a week that he’s become part of our family, I’ve already grown to love having a “baby brother” in the house. His English is relatively good compared to most people I’ve met, and for practice he speaks to me in English and I respond in Spanish so that we both can get better at our respective second languages.

Thursday night before I left for Portugal, the four of us (Marissa, Judith, Miguel and I) went out for a few hours to celebrate the end of the week, and Marissa heading back to Switzerland. I figured it was a good opportunity to take a few family pictures, so here they are:

The girls and Mari Carmen (when taking this I said "look, it's the queen and her princesses!" and she corrected me, saying "it's the mother and her daughters!" :) Very sweet.

The four of us: Marissa, Miguel, me and Judith

“I Apologize in Advance – But These Kids Are Animals”

When I got invited last week to volunteer at the local “colegio” (which in Spain means k-12 school, not college) I had no idea what to expect. I showed up 15 minutes early, (which I’ve now learned is unnecessary in Spain since everyone is consistently 15-30 minutes late) then I felt like a lost little kid in elementary school, because I had no idea which room I was volunteering in. Lucky for me, a nice PE teacher directed me to a fourth-grade classroom, and I walked in and was welcomed by a smiley teacher and a classroom full of 8 year olds who all excitedly switched from “hola” to “heeeeellloooooo” when they found out I’m visiting from America.

What I realized very quickly upon moving here to Spain, is that almost no one is fluent in English. Even the teachers who instruct their classrooms full of kids on how to pronounce basic English sentences are still learning English themselves, so having a “native speaker” in the classroom really means a lot to them. Thank God that my Spanish has improved in the last month, because the minute I stepped foot in the classroom I was immediately interrogated by twenty little children wondering what my favorite color is, if I can do long division, and if I personally know Miley Cirus. (Since of course everyone in California does, right?) I answered back one by one, until the teacher stopped me and told the kids that they need to practice their English – so they raised their hands one-by-one and tried again in slow, carefully constructed English sentences.

At the end of class, (fifteen minutes later, when it was time for me to go to the correct classroom :) ) all twenty kids rushed toward me with pens and notebooks in hand, asking “firma, por favor?” for me to give them my autograph. Apparently, just being from California automatically makes me a Celebrity among Spanish schoolchildren – good to know for next time, so I can wear oversized sunglasses and bring my own pen.

After such a positive and friendly experience, I expected my real class to be even better. I walked up a wooden staircase and down a long hallway, then immediately noticed a very frazzled, but adorably stylish teacher prying her way out of my designated classroom. “Hola!” she yelled from across the hall, closing the door to a room filled with screaming, wrestling, and cussing teenagers. “Me llamo Carmen!” She kissed me on the cheeks like all Spanish people do, then proceeded to explain (in Spanish of course) that I was lucky enough to be stuck with “los malos” – or “the bad ones” – the kids who skip class, annoy their teachers, and have 45 minutes each morning of English class “detention” to help straighten them out. Gee, how lucky for me.
We approached the door, and before I walked in she basically told me (translated from Spanish) “I apologize in advance – but these kids are animals” then grimaced, and walked in with me at her side. The pierced, super-styled and boot-clad teenagers all looked up with interest at me, and after yelling “OYE!” (LISTEN!) she finally shut them up, and introduced me to the class. She told them to ask me questions in English, but they didn’t seem very interested – a good looking girl hit the guy next to her with a shoe, then he pushed her, and they all began throwing paper wads at each others’ heads and yelling insults in Spanish I could barely understand.

After about five minutes of this, Carmen finally wrangled order back to the classroom, and the kids got out their textbooks so we could read a very classroom-y paragraph about a girl who entered her self-portrait into a school art show. I would read a sentence, and then they would repeat it back to me in broken English, pausing every few sentences so I could make sure that they actually understood what the paragraph was trying to say.

The kids looked really bored, and Carmen said I could do anything that taught them English, so I stopped and decided to try a little heart-to-heart to see if that would help. In my best attempt at coherent Spanish, I asked the kids if they like The Simpsons, or Family Guy, or if they’ve ever watched an American movie. They all said “si!!!” and the class clown began making Spanish Bart Simpson references to further my point. “Okay, well in these movies and TV shows you watch, is there language you don’t understand? How about music? Do you understand what The Black Eyed Peas and Snoop Dog (who they love by the way) are saying in their songs?” Most of the kids just looked at each other and shrugged, but a couple of them were actually paying attention. “No, no lo comprendo” [No, I don’t understand it] admitted a cute little girl in the front. And with that, they seemed to understand what I was getting at. English isn’t just some language in their boring textbooks – it’s everywhere in their culture. And how crazy is it to be surrounded in brands, products, and major media that are all in a language you don’t understand? Maybe there is some value to paying attention in English class after all.

For next week, I’m going to bring printed out lyrics to “I’ve got a feeling” and make them translate them from English into Spanish. (Which helps me practice my second language too!) Hopefully they’ll warm up to me… but after getting that first day behind my belt and surviving to tell the tale, I’ve got a pretty good feeling that it can only get better from here :)

Playa & Fiesta en Valencia

Despite our bus breaking down and arriving an hour and a half late, we did eventually make it safely to Valencia - just in time to get a great tour of the city before dark, then to prepare for a little dinner party at Laurence’s adorable apartment in the city central.

With curvy cobblestone streets full of shops, people, fountains and beautiful little parks, Valencia has a very romantic and costal feeling that reminded me in many ways of being back home in San Diego. That being said, the roman influenced architecture and street names written in Catalan immediately set it apart from any place I’ve ever visited, making it all the more exciting and interesting to walk around and explore this beautiful southern Spanish beach town.

As we headed back from Corte Ingles (the WalMart meets Costco meets Westfield Shopping Center that is taking over Spain) with all the food for our dinner party, the first thing I noticed was a gorgeous bride taking pictures under one of the many exotic cathedrals bordering the Plaza de Virgin. (See picture to the left.) Laurence didn’t seem to be phased – then I realized why. As we kept walking, there was bride after bride, all wearing similarly styled wedding dresses, hopping out of the same shiny black cars, posing just far enough apart from each other so that you couldn’t see the other brides in their pictures. I asked Laurence what the heck was going on, and apparently this is a completely normal weekend occurrence. Dozens of brides at a time, year round, all flock to the same central area near Laurence’s apartment to get married in the Roman cathedrals, and then get their pictures taken on the beach close by.

After dodging cameramen and wedding videographers, we finally made it back to Laurence’s place and started getting everything ready for the dinner party. Around 11pm several of his friends from Germany and Quebec joined us for a delicious (and healthy!! Finally!!) dinner, and we all had a great and relaxing evening, just sitting around laughing at our language barriers (English was everyone else’s second language to French and German, but since we’re all studying Spanish we alternated between the two) and all the cultural differences between the places where we grew up.

Saturday afternoon, we spent a good portion of our day at the beach just laying around in the sun and enjoying the warm Mediterranean ocean. I made a videoblog in the water (yay for underwater digital cameras! :D) but the sound turned out a little bit muffled. In any case, here it is:




Another major highlight from our beach trip was the hardly-competitive beach volleyball match we were challenged to by six middle aged, sunburned, and slightly drunk Sweedish men. Even though there were nine of us and six of them, they still insisted on playing - then proceeded to sing a strange and off-key fight song every time they made a point.
Later that night we all returned back to the apartment and Cecily and I got ready for our first true Spanish evening that would last from about 10pm until sunrise the next day.

How to Party Like the Spanish:

1) Start with tapas (various plates of appetizers) around 11pm. Order everything on the menu, but try not to gag if what shows up has eyes and/or a head. (See video below, and the picture for a better view of what I was eating.)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_YsJ_W7yxF8

2) Around 1am, start the house party. In our case, we had about 25 people from 8-10 different countries, so that made for quite the cultural learning experience. See video below.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zpI9jQgAQCU

3) Around 3:30am when the Discotecas open, head out with a big group and get in line. Once in, head straight to the electric music lounge with the fog, live DJ, and strobe lights. Learn from my mistake and don’t ever go to a Discoteca in sandals. (Midway through the night I stepped on a piece of glass from a broken cup on the floor. Luckily it wasn’t a very deep cut, but I realized afterword that feet need better protection under those circumstances.)

4) Dance the night away until 7am when the Disco closes. Then, as the sun starts to rise, grab breakfast at a pizzeria and walk home to recover and get a good day’s sleep.

Our bus ride home was slow and uncomfortable as usual, and although the bus didn’t break down this time, our driver decided to stop without warning in some city in the middle of nowhere to take siesta and a smoke break around 12:30am. When we got back home around 2am, I was eternally grateful to lie down in a real bed, (instead of a couch or bus seat) and had no problem falling right back asleep after our crazy, fun and adventure filled weekend.

Off to Valencia: The Broken Bus Adventure

“Yeah mom... Cecily and I are going on a seven hour bus ride this weekend to Valencia to hang out with these cool French Canadian guys that we met on a bike tour in London a week ago. They’re sweethearts, and not sketchy at all – it’s completely legitimate, I promise.”

After meeting Fred and Laurence on the bike tour then hanging out with them for a few days in London, Cecily and I were immediately convinced that all of us should hang out again. After looking at our very booked travel schedule we realized that this October weekend was the only realistic time that we could accept Laurence’s invitation to visit. So, two days in advance, we changed plans from embarking on a school day trip to the mountains (which we later heard was cold and boring anyway) and bought tickets instead to spend a few days at the beach, traveling by bus on the typically strange and uncomfortable early morning/late night route from Salamanca to Madrid, then Madrid to Valencia and back.

Although bus rides are definitely the cheapest way to travel, we've started to realize that they also attract some very strange people, and always result in very interesting and unpredictable situations.

Four hours into our bus ride to Valencia, we were traveling through a hilly region of the country, when our beast of a vehicle started making loud chugging noises and slowing down to about 35 miles per hour. Suddenly, we heard a loud "POP" noise, and with that the buss rolled pathetically off the highway to a nearby reststop, and we had to all gather our stuff, get out, and move to a new (but significantly older and less comfortable) bus.

On our way between Madrid and this point of rest, we met a bunch of Stanford kids who were also studying abroad and on their way to Valencia for the weekend. Our new friend Cameron ended up being the unluckiest of the bunch, as he was the last person to get on the bus, and got stuck in the very back seat next to a drunken and snoring middle aged man who was half passed out on Cameron's chair.

In the first 15 minutes the man woke up and proceeded to tell Cameron his life story, then without warning just fell back asleep and returned to snoring loudly in Cameron's ear. Cecily and I just about died laughing watching this whole scene, so we decided to record it - unsuccessfully, until after about three failed attempts, when we were finally able to quit laughing and pull it together. (There are two videos, this is the first, then another 45 minutes into the trip. I´ll upload the second when I get higher speed internet :)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CyV2FsSlEpQ

The Lying Scale, And Other Justifications for Deliciously Fatty Food

Marissa (“Swissa”) and I sat on her bed with our laptops other night, waiting patiently for Mari Carmen to announce down the hallway that dinner was on the table. Midway through my rant about how our house’s WiFi is anti-American, (everyone else’s computer gets it but mine) we heard this loud boiling and pouring sound – then Marissa and I looked at each other, and she mimed a dramatic wicked witch of the west-esque melting scene, screeching “the faaaaat, the faaaaaaaaat, it’s booooilingggg.” She was half joking, but after a month of Mari Carmen’s always delicious but very fatty cooking, we’ve learned just to just close our eyes, eat what’s on our plate, and try not to think about a future of weight watchers and airplane seatbelt extenders.

As we sat down at the table eating our amazing and freshly fried calamari, empanadas, and ham and cheese bites, Marissa, Judith and I all looked at each other and started laughing because we were all thinking the same thing. “Que?” asked Mari Carmen with an interested smile, and hesitantly, Marissa explained “es muy rico! …Pero tenemos miedo que vamos a gordar.” (It’s very tasty! But we’re afraid that we’re going to get fat.) Mari Carmen started to laugh, and replied with “no, no es la verdad! Caminais todos los dias, y sois joven” (no, that’s not true! You guys walk every day, and you’re young!) Then she proceeded to get up from the table, and head down the hallway with an apparent mission in mind to prove us all wrong. She came back into the kitchen with an old bathroom scale, and the minute we recognized it, the three of us all yelled “ahhh!! Nooo!” all with equally matched horror, until she made each one of us get up, and stand on the scale to prove that we in fact had not gained as much weight as we thought.

Lucky for me, the scale was in kilograms, so I could easily ignore whatever incomprehensible number appeared on the digital screen. Unfortunately though, I quickly learned that a kilogram is exactly half of a pound, so even being metric-system deprived and in denial, I didn’t have a good enough excuse to stop me from figuring out a simple math equation.

Marissa was first up, and although she was convinced that she had gained at least 6 kilograms, she was about the same, if not a kilogram or two less than her normal weight. (Which is absolutely tiny, by the way.) Judith was second, and although she wasn’t positive of her original weight, she was pretty sure that the scale had sliced off 3 or 4 kilograms from her ballpark number.

I waited until the dire end, and then very reluctantly stepped onto the scale to face the ugly truth of all my pastry and fatty food indulgences. To my shocking surprise, unless I divided by two the wrong way, (which is absolutely possible) the scale told me that I weigh about 8 pounds (16 kilograms) less than I did when I hopped on the plane a month ago. There is no way that can be right.

This being said, we’re all convinced that it’s a conspiracy. Mari Carmen must keep a broken scale in the bathroom near the kitchen, exactly for times like these, when people question the health content of her deliciously fatty cooking.

…Either that, or we’ve all actually lost weight. What would the nutrition specialists have say about that?

The Real Magic of Disneyland Paris

Growing up in southern California, I figured that no theme park in the world could ever match up to the original Disneyland. After spending five hours at Disneyland Paris however, I have to admit… I was wrong.

The whole idea of going to Paris in the first place came about on our second day in Spain, when Ryan offhandedly mentioned the “free tickets to any Disney theme park” perk he earned by working at Disney World for the summer. Whether this was really an invitation for us to join him or not, Cecily and I jumped at the opportunity – then next thing we knew, the three of us were standing under Sleeping Beauty’s castle watching Buzz Lightyear sing to “you’ve got a friend in me” in French. (See part of this on the video :) )

From the minute that we stepped foot in the park, the three of us felt like five year olds again, running around and exploring all the new and unfamiliar (Disney) lands and rides the park had to offer. Of the many notable ones, the most surprising were my old favorites Space Mountain and Indiana Jones which Disney Paris transformed into bonafied grown-up rollercoasters with loops, corkscrews and actual drops that rival the rides at Six Flags. Indiana Jones was our biggest surprise, as it’s built outside in a “Big Thunder Mountain” esque style, but with steeper drops, and great lighting effects like the ones on the original ride at Disneyland California.
Hands down though, the very best Disney experience of the evening was my ride on Crush’s Coaster – a Finding Nemo themed rollercoaster that simulates a ride on the back of Crush the turtle through the East Australian Current. (Duuuuuuuude, sweeeeet!!) We expected more of a Peter Pan type ride, but the minute we got on we realized that it was an actual rollercoaster – similar to space mountain, (it’s completely dark, and all you see are fish and bubbles in the tunnel around you) but even bigger drops, tilts, and turns. Think teacups + space mountain – the nausea.

For dinner, we ate at a Lion King themed restaurant, and paid 12 euro (about 16 dollars – ouch!) for questionable chicken wings, a salad, a water bottle and French (hehe) fries, but thankfully our meal also came with a Mickey Binget that made the entire purchase worthwhile. (Think Mickey shaped donut, but filled with warm, runny Nutella. Yuuumm.)

Disneyland Paris was a whirlwind, as sadly we were only left with a half day to explore the park by the time we finished our bike tour through the city on Sunday afternoon. That being said, even just a few hours there re-introduced me to the captivating Disney magic that I remember being overwhelmed by as a kid - back in the days before I had the entire park map memorized, and when I still thought that Princess Arial was a real mermaid.

At the end of the night, the three of us walked toward the exit arm-in-arm, and watched silently as the lights in Tomorrowland flickered off, and droplets of rain slid down the striped canopies along Main Street USA. Undoubtedly, there was something very magical about being grown-up and thousands of miles away from home, but still having our Disneyland. A place that will always be childhood, fantasy, and security in knowing that we can fly far away from home and still find our way back, and that even as jaded grown-ups, it's possible to find true love and make our greatest dreams come true.

I'm going to make it back to Disneyland Paris and see the rest of it someday. ...Wanna join me? :)

Paris: City of the Beautiful and Sketchy

From the minute we arrived at the Paris train station, I had a very scary realization: I can´t speak a word of french. Although most people (supposedly) speak english, from the very beginning our lack of vocabulary left Cecily, Ryan and me with invisible "TOURIST" badges plastered across our foreheads, attracting all kinds of unsettling situations. As you will see, in so many ways Paris was the beautiful, artistic city I imagined... I just learned very quickly to keep my eyes open, and not let the city´s romantic facade distract from the very real dangers of being female and American in a foreign country.

The taxi ride from the airport to our hostel was Cecily and my first lesson in being aware, as our taxi cab driver pretended he didn't know english (he did, we realized later) then overcharged us 4 euro because he "couldn't find" our hostel, and drove an extra four blocks past where we were supposed to be dropped off. Luckily, our hostel itself ended up being a good choice; it looked more like a hotel than a hostel, and was centrally located and full of international travelers. Despite being put in a ¨mixed¨ 10 person dorm where Cecily and I were the only females, our room was big, and nice, and the hostel had all kinds of fancy amenities like an internet cafe, a restaurant and bar, and brightly colored lounges buzzing with people.

The Beautiful Eiffel Tower and The Scary Paris Metro Situation

Our first night in Paris, Ryan, Cecily and I decided to start from the top of our list of things to do, so we grabbed french pasteries and fresh crepes, (see picture) and headed out to see the Eiffel Tower. After getting off the Metro I figured it would be a bit of a walk - but surprisingly, as soon as we turned the corner, there it was in all of it's glory: THE Effel Tower, all lit up and sparkeling in red and white colors like a giant french flag.

Standing benath the lit up tower at exactly 1am, the three of us ooooooh-ed and aaaaaah-ed with a crowd of tourists and cuddling couples as we watched the last glittering lightshow of the night.

After the lights went out we started walking back up a hill toward the Metro station, and suddenly became engulfed in a crowd of chanting Turkish teenagers who were celebrating the country´s futbol victory earlier in the night. As we walked into the echoing metro hallway, their chants got louder and louder, and a crowd of about ten African men who had been selling scarves and token eiffel towers started following our group closely behind. As the Turkish teenagers turned one corner we turned another, and the crowd of men followed - speaking in a language I didn´t recognize, and laughing in our general direction. Cecily, Ryan and I walked faster, trying to move away from them, but they kept following us. Suddenly, I felt a hand go to grab my butt from behind, then proceed to move further into my pants. Even before fear, my immediate reaction was that of furious anger, and aggression - I swung my arm behind me and hit his, then turned around to see one of the men standing there a couple feet from me with a scared, bewildered expression on his face. I was livid. How the hell could a strange man think it´s okay to touch a woman like that? To make an object of me in a crowd of men, and to treat me like some piece of ass that would just submit and not fight back? I realized subconciously that it was a very dangerous situation I was in, but in that moment, all I wanted to do was kill the guy. And I´m pretty sure he knew it, because as I turned around and looked him straight in the eyes, we stared at each other for a brief second, and he slowly began backing away with his hands up in the air, saying "ohhh, it´s all good, no problems here, no problems here" with his friends following suit at his side.

As soon as they started backing away, my fight intinct wore off, and all I wanted to do was run. Cecily and Ryan weren´t completely clear on what had happened, but they knew it wasn´t good. So the three of us ran - just looking back to make sure we weren´t being followed - and caught the next metro back to our hostel. I shook it off, and thank God for Ryan being there or it might have been much worse... but it made me pause. What if it had just been me and Cecily, ten guys, and 1am in an empty metro hallway. What could we have done? I don´t even know how to say HELP in French. Would there have been anyone there to protect us? For the first time ever, I felt completely vulnerable, realizing that my fighting instincts can only go so far, and even though my aggression scared the guy off, I was really lucky.

The Beautiful Bike Tour and Sketchy Arc du Triumph Riot

Sticking with the theme of Paris being both incredably gorgeous but also at times dangerously unpredictable, our Friday in the city was quite an adventure. We started out the day with a baguette covered in nutella, (my new favorite condiment) then headed to the Eiffel Tower to meet up with our bicycle tour.

Seeing Paris by bike was a great idea - it's a very bike-friendly city, (they have "rentable" bikes all over the place that you can use for free as long as they're returned within 1/2 an horu) and despite it being cold and drizzly, we were able to see a good portion of the city's major landmarks in the five hours of our tour. Like our experience in London, instead of describing each place we visited, I'll refer you to my facebook album for pictures and descriptions of the highlights.

That being said, here are a few fun little stories:

-When we stopped for lunch, we asked the waitors to take our picture at the table. They were goofy and hilarious, and ended up just taking a bunch of pictures of themselves, then handing us the camera back. See below.

- Paris was constructed in a way that is very aesthetically appealing - all the streets are designed parallel to one another, and they all lead to major landmarks and central parts of the city. Our tour guide told us a little anecdote about how this was annoying for the man who funded the building of the Eiffel tour, because at the time it was built, the French people (he included) hated it and thought it was ugly. Even still, every day for months on end this man would go to the Eiffel Tower, and would spend hours sitting on the first floor and eating lunch there. As the story goes, one day a waitress asked him why he bothered to visit so often if he hated the structure so much. His response was "well this is the only place in the city I can enjoy a good meal without having to look at this eyesore." (Because you can see it from everywhere in the city.)

- More than anything, what makes Paris such a striking city is the overwhelming presence of aesthetic beauty. Everywhere you walk (or bike in our case) there are delicately carved statues, huge gardens filled with bright colored flowers, bridges and museums covered in limestone and gold. Every picture we took could have been a painting at another angle - the dramatic clouds, vivid colors, and intricate architecture of the city is every bit as romantic as I imagined.

Our final night in Paris, on our way back from Disneyland (which I'm dedicating a whole post to :) we thought it would be a good farewell to Paris to see the Arc du Triumph all lit up around midnight. You would think that our first post-midnight experience with the Paris metro would have taught us that this wasn't the best idea, but we figured it was harmless.

...That is, until we walked out of the station, and straight into an Algerian riot. Apparently, Algeria qualified for the semi-finals in futbol, and several thousand people came to (happily?) riot under the Arc, which turned into one big, chaotic mess. We walked a couple hundred feet out of the station, and nearly got run over by a car full of people - a guy driving and three ladies in burkahs - who were standing up through the sunroof and waving Algerian flags out both sets of car windows. Naturally, the French police were annoyed, so a couple hundred feet away they started throwing tear gas, and a crowd of people began rushing toward us from across the street. At that point, all three of us looked at each other, and promptly began running back toward the enterance to the Metro station.

Quaint and Friendly London (Thu-Sat)

With all of the rave reviews I had going into London, I had high expectations. I'm a huge fan of European history and Monty Python (funny how the two go together) and I also have a handful of friends who have studied abroad and visited London, all of whom returned back to the US completely infatuated.

That being said, after only two and a half days in the city, you can count me in as another convert. Cecily and I arrived with an open mind, and left with about 300 pictures and countless stories of new friends and a series of very unconventional adventures.

The Hostel Experience

For starters, we stayed in a hostel entitled "Journey's London Eye" which in reality was about a 15-20 minute walk from the actual landmark. It was funky and cute, with free breakfast, (FINALLY some cereal instead of the usual 2 pieces of white bread!!) all for only 10 pounds a night. The drawbacks of course, were the fact that we were in a room with 15 other people (co-ed, we realized when an Austrian supermodel made his entrance at 10pm wearing only tighty whiteys) and of course the showers didn't have hot water past 6am, so Cecily and I had to take ice water showers in a tiny shower stall with push button water. (Alot like the ones at the beach, except colder and half the water pressure.)

Here's a little tour of our hostel room when we first arrived: [notice, wearing the same clothes for two days in a row]

Beautiful Thursday

Our first day in London, we majorly lucked out. It was sunny, and absolutely gorgeous - not a bit dreary as we expected. We spent most of the day just exploring the city, and all of my pictures turned out great, with the dramatic clouds and beautiful lighting - especially from atop the London Eye. (See the facebook link for the best of pictures.)

Cecily had been to London before, so she showed me alot of the major sites: the London Eye, Westminister Abbey, Big Ben, Picadilly Circus, and of course Oxford Street where I've never seen so many incredable shopping opportunities in my life. (We caved in and bought 2 pound scarfs, and a matching pair of jeans for 25 pounds that look way better than anything I've ever worn in the US.) For dinner, we stopped by an indian food place that I found on eurocheapo.com, and I was VERY impressed. A huge plate of incredable, delicious indian food (with vegetables!!! I can't tell you how happy I was to finally see veggies again!!) and fresh squeezed orange juice for only 6 pounds each :) ...And of course, we also had english tea, and the famous "Ben's Cookies" for dessert, so by the end of the night the combination of tiredness and food coma was enough to make even hostel beds seem appealing.

Here´s a video I took of Big Ben chiming at sunset: (I didn´t realize that there was such a big pause between the intro chime and the ¨BONG, BONG, BONG¨s)

Bicycling, New Friends & Billy Jean

Arguably the best day of our weekend, on Saturday we took a five hour bicycle tour all through the city, and covered way more ground than we ever could have just on foot. For pictures of all the highlights, check out my facebook album:

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2464733&id=3227554&l=4338f7a861

While on the tour, we met Laurence and Fred - an engineering student studying abroad in Valencia, and his good friend who just graduated and is a French tutor in a London prep school. The two grew up together in Quebec (which makes them ¨French Canadians¨) and we all hit it off, and ended up hanging out in a chocolate themed pub for a few hours after we finnished bicycling. :) After admitting how embarrassingly little Cecily and I knew about Canada, we had a fun discussion about comparative cost of living, life after college, and the overall differences in university life between our countries. (In Quebec they do 2 years of ¨college¨ for general ed, then four years of ¨university¨ to specialize, so a degree takes 6 years instead of 4. Also, there isn´t much school spirit like we have in the US, but people do ralley around hockey, which is by far the most important sport in Canada.)

After our fun afternoon and evening bicycling and drinking chocolate, we headed to the tube to meet up with a group of new Dutch friends we met in our hostel, who invited us to join them at an international Christian conference happening right outside the city. Cecily and I had absolutley no idea what to expect - all we knew was that ten adorable Dutch people invited us to some conference, and why not? It would be adventure at the very least. So after a 45 minute tube ride, we arrived at a huge convention center with thousands of beaming people wearing I heart church shirts, and welcoming us back to the ¨Hillsong International Conference - London 2009.¨ Reservations put aside, we ran into the giant auditorium to get seats, and were immediately surrounded with singing, smiling and clapping people, happy to welcome us to the event. The lights dimmed, and a bonafied rock concert began, with singalong words scrolling across the top screen. Having gone to a Christian middle school and a fair share of church services back in the US, the general format of the conference wasn´t completely foreign to me. ...But 3,000 plus people, from 47 different countries, all rocking out to guitar solos and reggae compilations of worship songs? That was definitally a new experience.

After the conference ended, we headed back toward our hostel with all of our new friends, and just watched, laughing in disbelief as they sang, danced, and goofed around in the metro station like happy little kids. We passed by an english pub, and they invited us in for a drink - clarifying that just because you love the lord, doesn´t mean you can´t also love a good pint of english beer.

We all squeezed into a row of booths in the pub, and the more we got to know these crazy dutch people, the more interesting they became. Of the 4 girls and 6 guys, most were in their early to mid 20s, and all had real, interesting jobs like a chemical engineers, a pilots, and an account manager for a major international company. We all talked about our homes - contrasting windmills and little stone houses with the warm beaches of San Diego, and Colorado´s Rocky Mountains. Since none of them had ever visited California or Colorado before, we ended up drawing rough maps of the US and our respective states on a napkin, and giving them general landmarks such as Disneyland, Yosemite, and San Fransisco for California, and both Denver and Colorado Springs in Colorado.

After about an hour of explaining American culture and the beautiful places we live, (they all want to visit now) one of the guys started beat boxing, which turned into an all-out karaoke session and dance-off between the American and dutch members of our table. Cecily and I taught them the electric slide, and then in three part harmony, we all belted ¨Billy Jean,¨ (this was only after one glass of wine, mind you) and we talked one of the guys into showing us his freestyle dance skills, which I think Michael Jackson would have been very impressed by. Sadly, my camera died so I didn´t record any of this (they promised me they´d email me their videos, so I´ll put them up as soon as I get them!) but it was by far, the most spontaneous, rediculous, and fun night we could have possibly spent in London.

Wednesday Night: Bummin' it in the Madrid Airport

Backpack, bag dinner, and airport clothes in tow, I left 20 minutes early from my 7:30-9:30pm Business Spanish class to catch a bus to the Madrid airport with Cecily. Our adventure started out a bit rough, as a mean Spanish lady stole our cab (we were about to get in and she cut us off, pushed herself in, and explained that "she wanted to get home for dinner") then our bus showed up at the wrong terminal, which we realized when an angry man came over and yelled at us, telling us we were holding everyone else up.

Here's a video that we made at the bus station about 5 minutes before getting yelled at, ironically.


So after finally making it onto the bus, the excitement continued when about an hour into our trip a Chineese man sitting in front of us turned around, and offered to "present himself to us" in very broken english. The conversation went something like this:

Sketchy Chineese Man (SCM): "Excuse me. I hear English voices and turn around to see two beautiful American girls. It not easy to talk to beautiful American girls. So let me present myself to you. I am from China. My name is [roughly] gih gah tic. But it not true, because I am small, ha ha. What do you study?

Cecily: we're studying business and spanish at Salamanca too.

SCM: Oh really? Well good. I have business proposition for you. For only 2 euro, you come visit China and have tour in any city you choose. AND home cooked Chineese meal.

Michelle: It's going to cost alot more than 2 euro for us to fly to China...

SCM: No, you see tour is only 2 euro. And you pick city. I fly anywhere in China you go. It is serious. You come to China. I give you 2 euro tour. Good deal.

...By that time, both Cecily and I were trying not to die laughing at him, and he looked sad that we were rejecting his offer. We told him thanks but no thanks, and he left us alone for the rest of the trip. (Thank God.] Good news is, now if we ever decide to take a weekend trip to China, we'll know who to call!

After the bus incident our trip mellowed out alot, with about 8 hours of sleeping in the airport before we had to check-in for our flight. (Check in was 9:30am, we got into the airport at 1:30am.) Instead of describing the wonderfully vagabond experience that was, here is a video that will give you a better idea: