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.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
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.
Monday, December 7, 2009
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”
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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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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Wednesday, December 2, 2009
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.
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.
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