Wednesday, September 28, 2011

Happy(?) (New Year)


For as long as I can remember, I’ve gotten a snazzy new outfit for the Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, (you can call it the Jew Year for short). Back in the day, the awkward plaid skirt and shirt combo came from Limited Too. More recently, it’s been the Forever 21 version of a similar style. Typically something in the fall color palette, often with some rhinestone or chain or lace embellishment. Something to make the holiday just a little more new and special and exciting.

I’d don my cute little outfit, matching my sister (and my cousins in Chicago) and we’d get to Beth El, our synagogue for services. While we came every Saturday morning pretty much, the rest of the 1000 families consider this one day of celebration the prime time to join us. And I loved that I could see all my Hebrew school friends in one place outside of class. As we ran around stealing juice and Bugels from the Torah for Tots service, we felt like we ran the place. Bobbing from Alternative services in the Catholic school next door or the Fountainhead catering hall nearby, back over to the main building for some hide-and-seek, the New Year was never anything new. It was always the same, and it was always great.  I never realized how great it was, how much the community made the holiday for me - how much Beth El was like my family.

Then, I came to college. 

I was with a bunch of people I didn’t know, in a room I didn’t know, with some tunes I didn’t know, and a prayerbook I’d never seen. I was, overwhelmed. By sophomore year, I was coordinating services, overwhelmed in another way, rushing around to find someone to open the Ark doors and read an English passage and take a Torah honor and make sure nothing exploded when I stepped outside to breathe. While I was happy to be with my NU family last year, I still had lost the warmth of knowing where my parents were sitting and stealing graham crackers and hiding behind the curtains to listen to Storyteller Lou DelBianco tell stories to the little kids. (I think this is his second shoutout on my blog. Weird. Psychoanalyze that one…)

Now, I’m in Spain. 

I will not be going to the one synagogue tonight because it isn’t safe enough to walk the 40 minutes home alone after. And, who wants to be alone to celebrate? Can you even celebrate something alone? Instead, I’ll probably celebrate with some Cien Montaditos, a fast food sandwich and beer place with 1€ Wednesdays. Then, I’ll sit by the river with my friends and play until it gets dark. Festive meal with ‘family’ – check.

Purchases to make this afternoon: New outfit for the holiday, preferably in a tan/brown/orange/beige color (Mom – it’s a religious expenditure. It doesn’t count) and honey, for the apples already in my house.

I don’t have school in the next two days so in that way, I can properly celebrate by taking off from work (and blogging. I know you’ll miss me.). Maybe I can make challah with my host mom, who still doesn’t see why shark is not on the Kosher list. Maybe I can stop feeling rather morose about celebrating for all intents and purposes, alone. 

Maybe I can realize it’s just another part of the adventure that is living in a country that expelled my religion for a couple hundred years. Guess what, Spain? You might be giving me some Rosh Hashana blues but, this Jew is here to celebrate an awesome New Year, to be spent 33% in THIS country.

Feliz Año Nuevo de los Judeos!  Shana Tovah U’Metukah! Have a healthy and happy New Year!

Tuesday, September 27, 2011

Starch

My life has gotten rather starchy in a few ways.

First, I'm going to share something rather intimate with you all. All 2000 of you.

My underwear. It's like sandpaper. I probably wouldn't tell you this if everyone on my program hasn't been chatting about this situation for the last week. Not only is my underwear as starchy as a potato, so is everyone else's. And it comes to me folded and ironed, too. My underwear, crunchy as corn flakes, is ironed and folded neatly. I'd say, "Haven't they heard of dryer sheets" but seeing as they have no dryers, that makes sense. They would know what to do with a dryer sheet as much as they would with a dog leash here (see post below). I was about to compare the outcome of laundry here to something else, but there is just really no word besides starchy. I feel like Little House on the Prairie, all starched and fresh, but kind of stiff.

Speaking of starch, I'm totally going gluten-free when I get home. Every single meal I eat here has a potato component and a bread component, generally complemented by a fish and/or cheese arrangement, paired with some veggies. Mostly, potato and bread. Today was potato with tomato and zucchini. Last night was pizza. Tomorrow is a roll, likely with an omelette of potatoes on it. And UNESCO really did 'protect' this diet. I still don't even know how one 'protects' a diet but I'm going to boycott it soon.
My festive Rosh Hashana meal, tomorrow, will likely be bread, and potatoes. Welcome to the Old Country. (JK the food's delish, but I just can't even think about how my breakfast will be toast.)

Speaking of toast, here's a toast to one month of starchiness. While my stomach might be filled with complex sugar compounds and my tush might be covered in cardboard, my mind is so not starch. I feel free, happy, light, flexible, relaxed, and healthy. I also feel full, from way too much food. And full of excitement  when ridiculously awesome things happen, as well as ridiculously trivial things happen.

As I bopped down the street listening to In The Heights and Bon Jovi, I thought "Gee, isn't this great?" And all I was doing was sweating my starchy self to school. I was superpsyched about walking down the street. In 95 degrees. To school.

If you put a Saltine, the ultimate starchsample, on your tongue, it begins to dissolve and it tastes like sugar. This takes a really long time and usually I just end up eating the Saltine but that's not the point.

No matter how starchy things get, I know that it breaks down into something that's basically, sugary sweet.

Monday, September 26, 2011

Unreal

Spain has some funny quirks I thought you might find amusing.

1. Beer is cheaper than water. Paella is cheaper than toilet paper. Ham is cheaper than everything.

2. People do not put their dogs on leashes. They just let their dogs run around them. My dog could definitely use that kind of training but... If you tried to sell a dog leash in Spain, people would probably use it on their adorable children, who they frequently dress in absurd matching outfits in bright primary colors. Sometimes the parents match the kids. I recently saw a 2 year old wearing espadrille heels that matched her mother, who was carrying her.

3. Speaking of Spanish fashion, there's quite the range of options. But always stilettos. All day, everyday, everywhere... in the subway, on the concrete, driving vespas... Always in stilettos. Often paired with strange denim items. It's so hit or miss here with wardrobes. Either it's a shirt with a supernonsensical English saying (Today I saw "Freak ever evolves to more"on a shirt in a China Fashion shop) or they're totally ahead of global style. They were wearing camel colored harem pants for at least a month before that became hot at home.

4. Fried dough dipped in warm melted chocolate is a legitimate breakfast food. Meanwhile, the UN officially protected the Andalusian diet as something of global importance. I do agree that we should protect melted chocolate friend breakfast food. I have a feeling UNESCO was thinking of the fish and olives and quince jelly. And not the really great pasta/vinegar/pineapple salad we seem to be eating every Sunday.

5. So I thought of all of these things in the park today, where I took a stroll with interspersed jogging moments. I was SO excited to see a park near my house. Greenery, fountains with cute benches, maybe even a soccer field where I could scout out a novio? YeaNo. I got a dirt long rectangle with a fail of a basketball hoop, a drunk Asian guy singing, and a whole bunch of empty broken 40s all over the ground. There were more cigarette butts than pieces of grass. Waytogo, Spain. You have surprised me again. I was taken aback by the incredible graffiti, the most beautiful part of the park. I'll get you a picture if I ever go back.

Which may be tomorrow. I have a superlax schedule (Monday mornings, one hour Tuesday, all day Wednesday, and that's all, folks), so I have too much time to do whatever I want. That's probably how I, Stefanie Groner, Floja of the flojas, ended up in sneakers, at the park, thinking of these things to share with you.

I just spent a lovely few hours hanging with the Norwegian beauties living downstairs, letting them use my wifi, and speaking in English. They speak better English than we do. I'm inspired to learn Scandinavian tongues because according to our approximations, their currency is worth 4 times the dollar. Get me a job there!

Running in cigarette butt parks and learning all about Olympic skiers or how to say 'like' in Norwegian from my new sisters.

Just your average day in Spain. I used to be able to describe my life as kind of repetitive ho-hum "Everyday I'm shufflin'" - I was infected by the apathetic, washed out college disease, the sophomore slump.

And now, I'm apparently running.

Sunday, September 25, 2011

Vamos a la playa

After the most random Friday night ever, Courtney woke me up IN THE DARK to get ready for our program's beach weekend getaway. A wine tour and four star resort made the pre-sunrise awakening palatable. Sort of. It took Courtney just two tries which is impressive.

We finished packing for the overnight and grabbed an empty 8:40 am metro, bocadillos (sandwiches) in hand.
On the bus, I sat in the back 5 seater aka winners' circle because it had a great view through the front window and it reminded me of my 2008 trip to Spain with 30 of my best friends. It was unsurprisingly dejavu. Largely because I was still on the verge of dreaming and awake.

The bus took off and we all schmoozed and arrived in Jerez de la Frontera before we knew any time had passed. I was just getting into a really great playlist of 90s bands and Jewish a capella and recent rap too. Shame.

Except not a shame because we pulled up to a bodega. Aka wine factory. Aka 10:45 AM drinking? Since it is illegal for me to drink in the United States, this was my first wine tasting and tour - which felt suave and cultural. And tasty.

The bodega was built about 20 years ago but holds another thousands of pieces of artwork, ancient to modern, two party rooms, horse stables, gardens, and extensive wine cellars. Just like my house in New York.

As our tour guide insisted on speaking the most awkward English ever, we kind of learned about how they make wine, but also just kind of stared in wonder at the ginormous barrels (pronounced 'payrolls' by this wonderful guide) of wine. Just an idea of how much wine, contributed by my friend Epencer: Everyone in our program would have to drink a liter and a half of wine everyday for a week and then some to finish a barrel.

There were thousands of payrolls.

Sometime between the stable tour and the mansion, the tour guide finally switched to Spanish and I started listening to the tour. Though the grounds are really stunning, the boss doesn't even live there. It's solely a workplace. If I can be the event planner at a bodega forever, I think I will be quite content, to say the least. And perpetually drunk.

As we opened the door labeled 'bodega,' I was expecting another bright room with a bunch of payrolls and some artwork. Except then I was on the balcony of the largest warehouse I've ever been in, with the most barrels I've ever seen, and the most overpowering scent of fermenting grapes I've ever smelled. After gazing in wonder, we were taken to a bright gallery, one of three in the world with some type of Picasso collection.
Aka a bunch of incredible originals by the Spanish master artist himself that I could look at up close. There were sketches and sketches and sketches. I hardly noticed the Dali and the Miro in the corner. I'm not even an art aficionado but wow, this bodegaman makes bank if he has all of this stuff.

We finally got to the wine part. We got one bottle. Then another. Then another. And then stickysweet raisin cream wine aka sugar. All had 17.5% or higher alcohol content. That's basically liquor. Real Tesoro, royal treasure, really just tasted like wine. And I don't love wine. I especially don't understand 'dry' wine. It's liquid - it shouldn't taste dry. One day, I may appreciate it more, but I appreciated the buzz on the rest of the bus ride where we took silly pictures and acted ridiculously while admiring the views of Cadiz, a city in the ocean, where Columbus sailed the ocean blue from. Usual. These things probably should stop sounding so incredibly awesome to me.

On the bus, I ate a sandwich that involved a piece of sliced wheat bread and a half of a baguette roll sandwiching a zucchini omelette. Uh, what? I had two slices of sweet potato and a croissant with cheese and sour orange jelly on the side. These foods so don't match in America. But I'm not in America. So, whatever. It was funkier than the Jamon and Queso most people were eating.

We arrived at the hotel in Chiclana's Sancti Petri area. For some reason, I knew we were staying in 4 star accomodations but still bugged out over how insane the hotel was. Rooms of three with a living room with couch sofa and chaise lounge. And a bedroom with a king-size bed. And a shower with a showerhead attached to the ceiling. This was the most exciting part. More exciting than the fully-furnished terrace looking out onto the lawn with the pool.

The excitement over the room was forgotten quickly since the beach was the most beautiful piece of nature I have ever experienced. We could jump soft waves, walk on the flat shore, and chat up cute locals. We could tan/burn, read magazines, sleep, and just be. We could also be topless as a legitimate fashion because this is Europe and that's what they do. I opted out but my companeras definitely took advantage of the opportunity, turning our area into a nude beach where I felt almost like the odd-woman-out for wearing a bikini top AND bottom - a novel concept of swimwear in this coastal region.

We returned to the hotel starving as the winebuzz dissipated and the sun stole our energy. Fading away, I was overjoyed when Tessa and Becca showed up with a baguette, some spreadable cheese, and some sausage. They were kind enough to share all of it because they are great people. Like everyone on our program. Seriously, these are the types you want to surround yourself with. Because they feed you when your winebuzz and zucchini sandwich fail you.

We got to dinner and surprise, giant buffet of food Americans love PLUS all the food Spanish people love. I had a ball. Fresh-grilled salmon? That's the meat of kosher people living abroad right there.
The desserts were so good I can't even talk about them because you will be hurt by how much you missed out or saddened by the fact you are no longer there.

After dinner, I snuggled with some friends in a happy food coma, took some cute pictures, and then went to my hotel room aka party central where easily half of the program had congregated to, um, hang out. And not drink. or make way too much noise. Or listen to a Pitbull playlist on the TV that cost 4.32.

While most of the party moved to the beach for an assortment of delightfully oh-so-study-abroad events involving more ocean, many stars, and desnudez, I stayed back, straightened my room, worked out the 4.32 euro charge, and ate a whole stack of oreos while gossiping on a friends' bed. Mom and dad, you seriously should not be losing sleep over my decision-making. I had a quintessential seventh-grade sleepover party while I could've been streaking down a foreign beach. (I do have three more months for the later and doble estuf oreos are very hard to come by here...Okay?).

In the morning, we woke up for a breakfast buffet that rivaled dinner's grandiose absurdity in proportion and deliciosity. We ate too much, grew giant food babies, and were content foreigners. Joan and I took a romantic stroll to the beach (complete with the adorable photo below) and reflected on the stellar state of being. We then ran into the ocean to frolic with some friends. Worth the lovely shade of pink glossing my shoulders for sure.

Salty and sandy, we returned for lunch, which would have rivaled breakfast and dinner except the potentially vegetarian foods were stuffed with meat and ham. Foodstruggles, I was back to my cheese and bread regimen until I worked up the courage to approach a chef and ask if the gazpacho had salmorejo (hamproduct) in it. It did, which he told me was delicious. I told him I'm sure it is, but I only eat non-meat things. He responded that it was ham, not meat. Ultimately, I got my point across and he so kindly brought me gazpacho without salmorejo from the kitchen, my veggieknight in shining armor. And then lunch was awesome. And it ended in truffles, which were also awesome.

As the foodbabies were redeveloping, we plopped down tiredly by the pool and spent the last hour basking in the afternoon sun, spraying sunscreen on already pink skin, and falling asleep.

The busride home involved 5 minutes of window-staring and 90 minutes of passed out glory.
I can't imagine a more perfect way to have spent the weekend before classes. Even with my awkward ear burn.

Joan and I decided that these three weeks have undoubtedly been spectacular. Perhaps too spectacular, giving an aura of eternal vacation. We decided that for the first time in a while we can honestly say we're really excited about school. Even if we have class at 9 am.

Thank goodness I have Courtney to wake me up.

Pictures in the next post. These are just getting way too long. This is no great American novel (though it might be in 3 months :-P )


PS. Why you should continue to read this week: My host dad has been painting the same door for two weeks and it's almost done. There are two Norwegian girls who moved into our house and don't speak Spanish. It's hilarious. And I deboned two fish for dinner. Cultural wins.

A Beach Vacation. Culture at its finest. Photoblog!

A smushy kiss from Kate on the bus post-wine
One day, I'll learn how to organize a photo layout functionally. For now, here is a short collection from my weekend.
And, Spain has sustainable energy farms, too. 

Romantic Stroll. Casual Perfect Beach. Average Life in Spain.

This is Cadiz. Why Columbus ever left is a mystery.

Beach, highway, oddly Seattle/Toronto-esque n eedle. Spanish architecture at it's finest.
Hey, Picasso doodles.




No really, I was there. I helped him decorate that horse with weird ribbons. And Meital was the Horse Whisperer.
Bacchus lives here.















The Judge and The Ice Cream: A tale of incredible coincidence

(Recap of last post: My friend Liz and I went to synagogue this past Friday and this is what happened after, an insane story of miraculously strange fate.)

So, as we left 'La Sinagoga,' Liz and I kind of made some smalltalk with this very American Spaniard who moved here 11 years ago from Boston. You could tell he was not native because his accent was clear and apparent and he had blondish hair. No one here has blond hair.

The blond guy had introduced this older man to the brotherhood as 'He is a judge."
Ooookay. So, The Judge is looking at a map to get back to his hotel and I happen to know that hotel so I offer to walk him back in the general direction since it's actually kind of on my way home and Nervion, mi barrio, is ridiculously far from the Aladdin streets we're tangled in.

The Judge is appreciative. He starts asking Liz and I why we're in Spain, why we chose Sevilla, what it's like here, etc., etc. As we get more and more lost, we're learning more and more about each other. Mind you, I still have no clue what this guy's name is.

Turns out, he's from my hometown, moved to Israel in 1970 in between jobs, and never left. He teaches at Cornell, his alma mater, and recently retired compulsorily from his position as the CHIEF JUSTICE OF THE LABOR COURTS OF THE STATE OF ISRAEL.

Because I'm a huge nerd, I think this is all incredibly interesting and fortuitous because we just have an absurd amount in common. Except the international law thing. But, it's cool.

So after walking a solid 25 minutes, we randomly end up by the Cathedral. I have no clue how we got there. I was so lost. It could've been so bad. But it was great! By the time we reached the Cathedral, I figured out that The Judge was from Scarsdale. Then I figured out he taught at Cornell.

Then he invited me to have ice cream with him in his hotel lobby.
I almost cried. What had started as a sort of unsettling and underfulfilled Shabbat became potentially AWESOME. I was going to eat ice cream with an internationally famous judge from my hometown who I happened to meet in Sevilla?! What?! Yea. That's my cool weird life.

Then he offered me random Kosher food he had left over from his weeklond European judges conference. Osem instant soup in meat flavors - win!

As we rounded the corner to his hotel, 4 miles about total, he realized we'd never even introduced ourselves. He introduced himself as Steve. NBD. Some people might call him His Honor Chief Justice Steven Adler, or Professor Adler at Cornell or Hebrew U. But he's just my friend Steve. And we're going to eat ice cream and cookies together. Now that's a Shabbos dinner.

His honor returns over 5 million results on Google. But whatever you can read on Haaretz or the Jerusalem Post, it won't reflect the man I met. 'Steve' was thoughtful, kind, interesting, and interested. He was world-traveled, diplomatic, nostalgic, and Jewish. He was a pretty ideal life role model. He also has a bunch of children and grandchildren and a house in the Old City that I do hope to visit him and his wife in as soon as possible.

He was like a Jewish grandfather for a couple hours. I would like this rent-a-Grandpa service every week. It doesn't even have to be an critically important Israeli judge - I'll give that criterion up, if it makes this easier.

As I left, bag of miscellaneous Kosher-marked foods in hand, I was more religious than I have ever ever felt. I felt SO lucky to have gone to synagogue, to have learned knew things, to have made a new friend, and to be Jewish.

In Hebrew School, one of our favorite ridiculous songs was, "Wherever you go, there's always someone Jewish. You're never alone when you say you're a Jew. So when you're not home and you're somewhere kinda newish, the odds are, don't look far, 'cause they're Jewish too."

This has never ever been truer. And, the ice cream was probably better than any of that kosher meat I've been craving. I left perhaps the happiest I've been here so far.

Sinagoga

All summer, I did many tangentially Jewish things. Actually, all my life I have done many skewedly Jewish things. My life could quite decidedly be declared as Jewish New York.

Then I moved to Spain, ate a shark, and missed sitting on the couch for NU Hillel's Conservices and Challah for Hunger gooey warm challah. Friday nights here were the few times I truly deeply felt as though I was not missing home, but missing out on the most important part of my week.

There is one 'sinagoga' in Sevilla. Naturally, I contacted the email I found for information. I got a short and sweet email back saying services were at 8 on Calle Bustos Tavera and also, there's a way to order Kosher meat to Sevilla. My mouth is watering for some Saturday afternoon deli sandwich as I write this.

I decided to work on the meat thing later and try out services this week. One step at a time, and Rosh Hashana, the Jewish New Year is coming up - a seriously bigdeal holiday, and I wanted to at the very least scope out my options for finding a service and potentially, a Jewishfam to have a meal with. Asking to meet a nice Jewish boy at services would be pushing my luck, but the world works in mysterious ways...

I met my friend Liz, a religion major at Princeton who is not Jewish, but thinks we're cool folks, and we walked to the 'sinagoga' together. The streets were basically as meandering and tiny as the opening scene in Aladin. Except, we were not harem-pant wearing roof jumpers. We were just sort of lost looking foreigners. Somehow, we found the right building. According to the email.

There was no one there. It was dark. The shades were down. And none of the buzzers corresponded to a sinagoga or Moises Hassan, my contact. So, we walked around the block, a little panicky, but it's really hard to get anxious in a super-relaxed city on a lovely Friday afternoon. We asked some cafe workers if they knew anything about the sinagoga and they told us they'd never heard of one. Great, since it's two doors down. Clearly, this is a quiet little operation.

After 20 minutes of wandering, we came back and still, closed doors and no lights. It was a quarter past eight. We called up to a man on a balcony across the street and asked him what he knew. He essentially said, "Not much, but every Friday around 8:30, a bunch of men go into that building." He pointed which window we should be creeping on. We decided to stroll around and upon return, ten minutes later the door was open and the lights were on.

We were ushered behind the friendliest mechitza (wall dividing men and women in orthodox prayer spaces),  coming to about hip height giving us an unobstructed view of the strangest group of men. They each wished us a Good Shabbat and many shook our hands. It's weird to shake hands from behind a mechitza - but whatever. It was a nice gesture. The service involved complex Moroccan 'tunes' a lot of mumbling, and awesome transliteration with 'J''s for the 'Ch' sound and accents over letters. The translations were also fun to read in Spanish, especially since I was as lost as Liz with the Hebrew for most of the service.

Much like Hillel, a handful strolled in late, walked around, talked in services, and fraternized with one another. We felt like we were at a bizarre spanish Men's Club meeting. I was dying to ask them to stop and just sing one beautiful tune from the Kabalat Shabbat I knew.  Though the room was simple and small, the decorations were comforting and splendorous - lots of jewel-toned curtains, an ark with a familiar Hebrew inscription, wall hangings in ceramics and metals with images of Jerusalem and phrases from prayers... While the service may have felt a bit off for me, the environment allowed me to feel intrigued and more importantly, gave me the peaceful familiarity I was looking for.

After the short service, we were kind of ushered out. Closing time. As if no one had ever been there. I don't know if I'll go back after Rosh Hashana. It's hard to get to and not safe to walk home alone after and taxis are expensive. And, if I do my own kabshab on the rooftop here, I get to hum the tunes that cool off and restart the week so well for me.

But, I have to do it alone. That's the hardest part. The Jewish community has been there for me in EVERYTHING I have ever done as an integrally strong cornerstone to every stage of my life. From Beth El nursery school through Hillel at school, I've always had a crew to fall back to. Now I have to kind of go it alone.

Except I ended up leaving the sinagoga with a new friend... The former Chief Justice of Israeli Labor Courts. See proxima blog for details.

Thursday, September 22, 2011

SharkAttack

This is probably as quintessentially 'study abroad' as it gets.
When you choose to go to a country where they speak a different language, you should expect to just not understand what's happening often. You are constantly told to have an open mind and try new things.

Three weeks in, I've been supercraving chicken. All I want is some meat. But, I'm not going to eat it on purpose.

I never ever expected to end up eating what I ate yesterday.

I sat down for lunch and was greeted by the incredible aroma of a bubbling pan of fish, tomato, and pesto. Yum, right?

When it landed on my plate, the fish was explained as 'delicioso - calzon."
K, not a calzone, but also not a translatable type of fish. Bacalao is cod. And that's about the only one I know.
I slice a chunk in half, hungrily. The texture looks meatier, thicker than other fish. I exclaim, "It really looks like chicken!" But Ana quickly persuades me that it's definitely a fish. Calzon, calzon.

So, I eat it. And it is so so yum. Because it has the texture of chicken. And I really was kind of getting sick of baked cod, oily tuna, and bagel-less lox on a steady rotation, even though her cooking is superb.

I enjoy the whole plate. Every last morsel of coated 'fish' with tomato-y pesto-y amazingness all over it. What a great lunch.

Until dinner. When I ask what that fish was called again? Calzon. With a 'Z.' It's still delicious, in her opinion. And still delicious in my opinion too. But still slightly skeptical.

Google is complicated here because the results are in Spanish. After the first google, I'm too shocked when I see that this 'calzon' may in fact be a breed of SHARK. I'm in complete disbelief. So I googletranslate. It's 'dogfish.' Yea. Uh. What?

So I google 'dogfish kosher?'
Answer: Nope. Because it's a type of SHARK.

I then wikipedia 'dogfish'.
My heart's racing. I'm bugging out...

Especially when the picture of a SHARK pops up. The kind you've seen in the aquarium. The little ones with round heads that they sometimes let you pet? THAT'S IN MY TUMMY.

My roommate's first thought: 'Oh, I thought you were freaking out because it wasn't kosher."

No. The heavenly G will forgive me. It was an accident. I had no way of knowing. Least of my concerns right now. THERE'S A SHARK THAT MIGHT AS WELL BE SWIMMING AROUND INSIDE ME!

After a solid half hour of 'OhmygodOhmygodOhmygod I ate a shark Ohmygod'-ing all over Facebook, Skype, and the house, I settle down.

Okay. Maybe I'm still a little crazy with the fact I ATE A SHARK by accident.

It's definitely a funny story. It's also definitely delicious. It's also definitely not kosher. No fins and scales there. Just JAWS. In my digestive system.

And I definitely have no clue what I'll do next time it ends up on my plate.

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

Dudas (Doubts)

Before moving on to the next lesson, Spanish teachers in my life have often asked the class, "Dudas?" as in, "Do you have any doubts/questions/concerns/general lack of understanding?"

While there have been several times I've been asked "Dudas?," I have never exclaimed "Si! Tengo muchas dudas!" though I'm generally confused about what's going on when someone has been trying to explain grammar to me in Spanish.

How many of you knew what any verb or subject was called before you learned foreign grammar? I knew basically nothing, except for a little bit Mrs. Serafin taught me in eighth grade and tricks from Testtakers SAT prep.

In Spanish, there are a thousand different 'past' tenses. I have gone, you have gone, I thought you went, you went, she would have gone, she was going, she went with him until I came, I was going to go, but you had gone last week before she left. etc. etc.

The subjunctive. I have learned and relearned this stubborn verbform every year since tenth grade but it doesn't exist in English, so I have nothing to translate it to - I still sort of just guess where it goes. Pluscuamperfecto, for example - it's fun to say, it's harder to remember. Advice can be given in the conditional or the subjunctive but sometimes, in the infinitive - and if I gave that advice yesterday, it's probably a past tense. But if I gave it this morning, it's an immediate past tense which is a relative of the perfect past. Maybe because today was perfect? Even if today was the worst day ever, it's probably still the verb form called 'perfect' but I am definitely living my grammarlife in the imperfect because I just can't form a sentence perfectly using the perfect.

It turns out I should have more 'dudas' in other things. Earlier, I alluded to a 'pico' I met. I should have said 'pijo' - a 'pico' is more of a 'nibble,' so I had thought the name for Spanishprepster as 'nibble' to be weird. Turns out his name is also JuanLuis, not JoseLuis. I should have doubted myself more, considering it took ten days to figure out the names of the people I was living with. So, thank you to my program director Celeste for 1. reading my blog, 2. correcting me on 'pijo,' 3. entertaining my absurd presentations over the last three weeks. One presentation included the Spanish version of the song 'Wavin' Flag' in our lesson on learning about Spanish music. My In The News presentation was about tennis, rather than the economic crisis, forest fires, the upcoming election, or something meaningful. I thought RafaNadal was meaningful. So does my host dad. Waytogo.

Anyway, I have some dudas about my progress here, my ability to conjugate verbs, and how well I understand anything going on around me.

I know one thing for sure: As I was brushing my teeth this morning, I looked in the mirror and thought, "Today is going to be a great day. My life is great. Muy bien."

The best thing to be secure about is how happy I am. The rest, I can doubt. I could doubt. I have doubted. I will doubt. I had doubted, but then I no longer doubted.

Verbs, verbs, verbs. Whatever. I'm still loca de contenta con mi vida. Googletranslate if you can't dissect that one. I'm off to estudiar for mis examenes mañana.

Tuesday, September 20, 2011

Let's go to the mall

We have a lot of free time in Sevilla. Usually, we're exhausted from all of the academic and not-so-academic activities from morning till night. Today, I took my first ever real siesta nap, passing out for a full 45 minutes, only awoken by that horrible pay-as-you-go ringtone I'm about to change. I overslept my alarm and it was time to walk down to grammar.

After the longest hour of my Sevillana life, agonizing over the subjunctive, a verb form that totally doesn't exist in English, I needed some solace. (Maria, you're a great profesora, grammar is just less desirable than siesta. It's really not a contest. Lo siento.)

Once I walked outside, ambushed by 90 degree humidity, all I could think of was jumping into the fountain in the plaza, dedicated to a generation of revolutionary Spanish poets we learned about last week.

However, no one would go with me, and then I'd have to walk home soaking wet. I settled for a stroll in the park with three companeras, and then we decided to ir de compras aka go shopping!

I have been wearing flipflops for 20 days straight. I am no position to admonish Spanish fashionfails because I have been a total faux-pas. My feet have been too blistered and beaten to wear anything else, but they're finally used to the 5 miles a day ('used to' to be interpreted loosely, as a synonym for 'numb' or 'dead'). So, when I saw a pair of sandals for 6€, I was almost sold. I decided to ask to try them on. Because that's what you do with shoes in America.


Ha. The saleswoman could not fathom why I would want to try on both the left and right shoe, why I might want a 39 and a 40 to try, or anything else I said in Spanish. When she spoke to me, I realized her command of this foreign tongue was of about the same or lesser caliber as mine - she was Chinese and we had 0 languages in common. I saw a German girl ask to pay in English and get a response that sounded like choking and morse code mixed with Spanese. 


Ultimately, the price and my need for non-flipflops for everyday use triumphed over the incredibly awkward shopping experience and I left with the shoes. I'm still not sure if I can return them because the sign above the register said: No devolver dineero.  


They spelled 'dinero' wrong. I don't care what language you do or don't speak, but in SPAIN at a store you would think they could get the word for money right. The store itself was called 'Shopping,' an incredibly thoughtful and creative name for a retailer. Once I had my shoes (I'm a 39 for sure), we zipped out of there, perhaps never to return. Until the next too-hot afternoon deadtime.  


Next, we ended up at Lefties, - a store that can only be described as the European lovechild of Forever21 and Urban Outfitter's sale rack. Save the odd shirts with awkward English writings that don't make sense ('Girls' Only Access California State of Missouri,' for example) As I frantically tried to convert Euros to dollars at a rate of 1.36, I ultimately just realized that a steal is a steal and you know one when you see one, no matter what country you're in. 


Day total: 9.98€ for 1 pair of shoes, a lime green tank, and awesome speckled shorts. StefFTW.


While I may not have seen monuments, I feel eurofashionable, one step closer to looking like I go here.

Monday, September 19, 2011

American in Sevilla - Day #19

When you live in a foreign country, life can be overwhelmingly cool. Today, many small magical things happened and each delighted me endlessly.

First, I had class at 11 so I got to sleep in a bit. A burst of fresh air accompanied by gossiping cleaning ladies across the terrace woke me up at 9:15 but I didn't care because finally, I was not sweating while getting dressed. I even wore capris because they are fashionable here and I want to be Spanish.

Morning turned to afternoon and I ate some spinach and garbanzos and went back to class. After class, I walked the million years home with four wonderful girls. We had a busy evening plan. We had a full agenda.
1. Buy ice cream. Our 2x1 ice cream place no longer sells 2x1 ice cream so we had to go two stores down to the other ice cream place WHERE THEY HAD CHOCOLATE DIPPED CONES. I indulged in this incredible delicacy, filled with banofee, a flavor of banana cake, cookie pieces, and caramel. Not too sweet, not too fruity, all too satisfying.

2. Walk with melty ice cream cones in the breezy late afternoon to the Sevici citywide bikeshare station to get a big red bicycle. We just walked home. Why would we want a bike? SO I COULD LEARN TO RIDE ONE!

Yes, I'm 20 and until today, I absolutely could not ride a bike. I did not go near them or think about them but rather watched Northwestern students zip up and down campus jealously. Now, I have a fighting chance in the Tour De France 2011.

Not yet, but these wonderful friends literally balanced my handle bars and caught me as I tilted and swerved. Twenty minutes in, I was down the driveway and back by myself. A group of 8 Spanish little girls watched me and giggled from the other side of the street. A neighbor came out and exclaimed, "You don't know how to ride a bike? How incredibly awkward?" (At dinner, she asked my friends if all Americans don't know how. They assured her it's really just me.)
Twenty minutes later (on the second round of free 30 min bike rentals), I could start and stop all by myself. Palms sweating, heart racing, I was over the moon with glee.

Turning for another day as I headed home to do a few things before dinner.
You know when you leave America for 20 days and you just can't eat any more fish and vinegar and salt and melon....

WE HAD SPAGHETTI. Ana, heromother of the century, fixed any homesickness we may have felt. Courtney almost cried. Sebas told us we were going to ruin their finances for eating so much. I just smiled and smiled and smiled. And ate more spaghetti.

Chocolate cone, bike riding, spaghetti. All-American best day ever? You thought it couldn't get better?

I have a new friend. The Christmas-scarf wearing stuffed moose Ana gifted me from her attic clean-out (treasure-hunted there during siesta. It rocked.). I also have fresh sheets and TWO pillows to sleep on, along with my new friend. Name submissions being accepted now.

And tomorrow, I don't have to wake up till 10. This is the happiest I have been in a while.


Sunday, September 18, 2011

This is BullFight Club

I just saw a bullfight. I watched six bulls get taunted, tortured, and killed. PETA probably does not endorse this activity. However, Sevilla is a bullfighting capital of the world and the season ends next weekend.

Many consider this artistry. So do I.

Killing animals for entertainment is antiquated and wrong. Blood is gross, and there's a lot of that. But - there are no buts: bullfighting should probably be abolished, like slavery.

However, I'm appreciative that I got to go. The men's outfits sparkled in a way Ke$ha can only describe. Glitter everywhere. They also wore the tightest pants I have ever seen. And the way they walk is more of a dance, right up to the bull, around it, beside it, almost friendly. Except then they stab it.

I really shouldn't say 'men' because none of the fighters were older than me. One was born in 1993. When I was 18, I was not wearing that much glittery spandex and I definitely did not spend my free time waving pink fabrics to distract animals four times my weight. But, cool, if that's your family's tradition.

I won't go into the gory details but it definitely gets dirty. Highlights include a somersaulting bull, a roll-and-tumble bull/fighter tango, a bull knocking over a horse, and a grandstand band to top it off. Surrounded by tourists speaking foreign tongues and old Spanish men smoking cigars, I sat with 4 other girls to brave the six rounds of what some call magesty and others, death. The tend to glamorize bullfights in posters or movies. You see a guy wearing a weird outfit waving a red thing and a torro running to and fro, snorting and kicking its legs around.

It's only sort of like that. It's more glittery and ponies and strutting - and the killing part. Watching an animal die sharply contrasts the beauty of the artform of distracting and attracting the bull to control it.

As usual, there was lots of history and culture to go with it, still not sure how I feel about it, but after the first round, where I looked away from the miserable creature, my eyes were glued to the ringed circus of men in tights doing stupid things. Sitting down while a bull charges at you? Really?

No people died, many animals did, it was gut-wrenching, it was glorified, it was Spain.

You want a piece of me?

If bullfighting is abolished, where will this guy wear his awesome outfit?

"This is my cape. Please run toward it now. Then I'll kill you."

Glitter everywhere.

A little tussle between the bull and the boy. Sometimes I roll around with thousandpoundbeasts too. For fun.

He was just having the time of his life. And his cigar was invading my lungs. 

Nudge, nudge. 

Pink socks. So many pink socks.

Feather plumes. These guys had no discernible role other than to look awesome.



A Roman City, a Monastery, and Shrimp


Saturday was these three things. Courtney and I tragically missed our class trip to Italica, a well-preserved Roman city outside Sevilla in favor of our cultural exploration at the beach last weekend. Our hostfam graciously offered to take us this weekend to see what we had missed out on, but in a car, whenever we woke up, and for free. Sweetdeal. So Luis Manuel and Ana led the way to Santiponce, the equivalent of a suburb 15 minutes outside Sevilla.

No suburb I know has a monastery from the 1300s next to a gladiator-ready amphitheatre, but whatever. Save that, Santiponce is your average Spanish town: A church, a bunch of bodegas, a lot of white houses, a gas station, and a backdrop of mountains.

We picked up Luis Manuel's friend Jose Luis on the way. JoLu was the kind of Spaniard our teacher explained as a Pico - the type who wears brightly colored Ralph Lauren polos and lives in Los Remedios, the barrio with cute cafes and Tommy Hilfiger-clad children clutching their wedge-footed mothers' hands on their way to and from Catholic school. JoLu was amiable as they come and enjoyed speaking broken English to match our broken Spanish. If he hadn't been 30 and my height, Courtney and I might have even asked for his number.

In the monastery, we saw many preserved paintings, hymnal books from five hundred years ago, and a German-speaking tour group. The monastery reminded me of the abandoned jail facility in Wingdale, NY near camp... Incredibly extensive architecture, much of it barred off to society, and clearly holding incredible secrets, many potentially scandalous. I spent my time wandering through, imagining what noble families did to get their seals painted on the walls and whether or not San Isidoro actually sat on the piece of some well that the monks had worshipped as a relic. This Medieval religious artwork is becoming a casual everyday thing, and I like it.

We shifted a bunch of centuries earlier to Italica, down the street. Admission was free to wander around some Roman people's 'houses' and gardens and theaters and markets. While many of the walls are just a couple of stones or bricks high, you can definitely see the scope of the city, the size of the rooms, and a ton of leftover mosaics. So many mosaics. The people must have spent their entire existence laying tiles. Bird-shaped tiles, flower-shaped tiles, people-shaped tiles, mythic creature-shaped tiles. So many colorful tiles. It's weird that they built huge houses and those were all destroyed but colorful tiles have weathered a millionjillion years of Spanish droughts and earthquakes and such.

See for yourself. I had lots of fun with Courtney's camera's panorama setting - it only captures a fraction of what I saw which is only a fraction of how things once were. After we went back in time, we went to two different tapas places and had tinto de verano (sprite and wine), some local Mistela wine, and lots of cheese, patatas aioli, and tuna with roasted red peppers. The meat/seafood eaters had an ambiguous dish of presumable pork cubes and then, shrimp. Not just neat little pink shrimp cocktail shrimp. Shrimp with whisker-y tentacles and ugly little black eyes on their creepy boney heads. I was glad I don't eat shrimp. Luis Manuel still found it amusing to wave the shrimp's crazy hair in my face. I was less amused, but happy from tinto and mistela and a wonderful afternoon.

Middle ages or Roman imperial times, the world used to be way cooler. Living in Spain is probably the next best thing to time travel.

My host home. JK - Entrance to San Isidoro Monastery

Isidoro's driveway. JoLu in the shot.

Whoa, what happened to your houses, Romans?

This used to be pretty. Now it's just vintage-pretty.

Tropical outdoor museum? The two 30yearolds had a lot to say about some missing apendages.

Columns are sort of useless without a roof. They surround a 'pool' that is so small, it implies all Roman people were miniature.

Panorama fun begins. 

This is my mom. 

This is my brother.

Multi-layered Panofun.

Roomz outside the ampitheater, after an amicable showdown inside. 

Thursday, September 15, 2011

Gold for the Queen

We toured a palace today. Called Alcazar, the 'residential' space was built more than a thousand years ago. When the King of Spain and his fam come to Sevilla, they get to stay there. They probably don't think anything of it, but I think it's pretty cool. I don't see why he couldn't have been my host family and I can't live there.

If I lived there, I think I'd pass out from the number of overwhelmingly beautiful tapestries or die of hunger because I was too busy looking at all of the mosaics. I'd never be able to speak or write because I wouldn't be able to find the words to express how incredible home was. I'd probably never leave the house.

Had I been part of the Arabian harem or the Spanish court that used to live there, I wouldn't have been allowed to leave the house, because I'm a woman and those are the rules. It seems like a sweet enough lifestyle to me. 

Speaking of sweet, after we left the palace, a bunch of us went to get ice cream. I have become an expert at saying "Can I try X flavor?" and have started an excellent collection of tiny plastic spoons of all colors and sizes through this method. I also have avoided spending exorbitant amounts of money on ice cream. For the price of a small ice cream here, you can buy 4 loaves of bread. Not a joke. I happen to think they are both delicious but we have lots of bread at our house and definitely not ice cream. Ultimately today, my desire for ice cream peaked and I purchased a Magnum Bar Gold. When I opened the wrapper, I discovered the bar was actually Gold, as advertised. And not that awkward yellow athletic 'golden' color. At first, I was weirded out. I had just wanted some vanilla and caramel ice cream with chocolate coating - not some gilded concoction. Then, I noticed my fingers were glowing and sparkling as the coating melted on my hands on this lovely 91 degree day. The ice cream looked magical. My hands were shining. The snack was delicious. The euros were well-spent. My tastebuds were overjoyed and my eyes, delighted.

Everything here is magical. I'm still enchanted. From palaces to pre-packaged ice cream, this day ruled like the King of Spain from the Alcazar Palace. One day when I'm Queen of the World, I'd like that to be my primary residence. And I'd like to feast on gold ice cream bars regularly.

Wednesday, September 14, 2011

Amor Espanol

Don't get too excited. I haven't found a novio espanol. Instead, I went to the movies with a bunch of American chicks and then came home and had a hot unexpected date with my 70-year-old host padre, Sebastian.

First, movie review. As a class assignment, we needed to go to the Spanish movies. And not an American dubbed movie. Wednesday is cheap movie day so we all decided to head up to the theaters after class this evening. Spanish films are limited. Theaters are filled with awkwardly retitled American films such as "My Best Friend's Wedding" (Bridesmaids), "How to Rid Yourself of Your Boss" (Horrible Bosses), and the intranslatable "Con Derecho A Roce" (Friends With Benefits), etc. Also, watching actors you know say lines you know with funny Spanish voices is plain uncomfortable.

So, 2 choices. We could have seen Almodovar's new psychological thriller, "La Piel Que Habito"
but I only really do romcoms.

Instead of what will probably be up for an Oscar, we saw "Lo contrario del Amor" which was a complex romcom with a lot of nudity. Spanish people are not afraid to show what they got and watch that of others.
Ultimately, the movie involved a firey explosion, a car accident, drug addictions, and death. Still, it had a happy ending and was sort of funny. Except we missed many of the colloquialisms and punchlines. So it was less funny. Still funny. While we were busy not understanding what the characters were saying, the plot was so utterly predictable we had time to analyze Spanish culture through the lens of film - good practice for what I'll be doing in one of my classes all semester. And, there were three really hot Spanish actors = americanas contentas.

The equally blogworthy part of my night came when I got home and sat down for dinner. After watching 20 minutes of a dubbed Dennis Quaid flick where the president got shot (America + Violence/Drama/Politics = Spanish telegold) with my hostbro Luis Manuel, Sebas sat down with us too. He's largely deaf and declared that he did not like the kind of film because its hard to distinguish if it's the news or Hollywood. I don't blame him. We changed the channel to Real Madrid vs. some tiny bad team futbol game.

Sebas began to quiz me on what names of foods I knew and then lauded me for how much I've learned. I really have. Also, words like 'broccoli' and 'salmon' are easy - 'brocoli' and 'salmon.' And that's what I was eating.
Once the conversation turned to soccer, I was at a complete loss. Fundamentals like "kick" and "goalie" were escaping me or just not in my vocabulario at all. The words I did know, like 'goal' (gol), I was mispronouncing so terribly that he decided to SCHOOL me in fonetica.

As a former Latin and French professor, Sebas has my trust as a personal Spanish teacher of some sort, too.

He did not let me leave the table or change sentences until I had perfected each stunted o and curled r and choked j.  He showed me to purse my lips like I'm blowing a kiss for an 'l' or to close my teeth for a 'th' and to push my tongue to the bottom of my mouth for the right aspiration. Yes, breathing is basically a letter no one ever taught me. I talk a mile a minute. They like to breathe sometimes. It takes practice.

"La lengua es dificil a aprender." Language is difficult to learn. He says this too us at least 700 times a day. I don't know why. Sometimes I think he repeats because he's old. Sometimes because he thinks we don't get it. Sometimes because he just really means it.

After a half-hour chat about futbol that should have been 3 seconds, Sebas had me pronounce the colors of books on the shelf and then had me read the dictionary entry for the color brown, marron, outloud.

Finally, I succeeded and the lesson was over. As much as I learned in grammar class today, I feel like I learn so much more at every meal. Not to mention I had the most amazing sauteed green peppers today.

I never want to leave. Even if I have to perfect every letter just to say a dumb sentence like, "I have been learning Spanish since I was thirteen but my accent is still like this."  It's tiring but I could definitely use hours of 'lessons' with Sebas. After a while, you might not even know just how American I am - GOL!

Tuesday, September 13, 2011

10 Things I Don't Hate About Sevilla

AKA 10 things I did in the last two days while I did not have any time to blog

1. Made travel plans to go more places. It's so hard to say "No" to 9Euro tickets. But it's also hard to leave Sevilla ever. I might never come home.

2. Saw a Flamenco espectaculo. Now I know why shows here are called espectaculos. It was espectacular. We got a half-price deal (me, JFus, a friend of 7 years who was visiting Sevilla on her way to study in Morocco, and her two Dartmouth friends) because my senora is besties with the guy who runs the Palacio we went to. A drink and an AWESOME show by a world-renowned company for 18 euros. Need to write a thorough review, but it was definitely a win.

3. Walked over 5 miles to and from school today. Average. Whatever. Probably shouldn't even be on this list its become so norm.

4. Ate an incredibly delicious crepe (crep) with Mori as we got really excited about going to Paris, while sitting in an open air market in a Plaza. This crepe had condensed milk. It did not look appetizing but was quite delicious. Still not sure what it was. Still sure I will eat many more crepes in Paris.

5. Planned classes for the semester - Arab Influence on Spanish Lit, Artistic Techniques (fieldtrips!), Image of Spain through Film, and Spain and the European Union. What I'm taking is not as important as my schedule, which has 1 hour on Tuesday and nothing on Thursday or Friday.

6. Watched futbol on TV and got psyched for the FC Sevilla game this weekend! The stadium is a stone's throw from mi casa. Cervezas on gamedays are 1 euro. Can't decide if I should go to the game Sat night and then a BULLFIGHT on Sunday - seems a little inhumane, the whole stabbing and killing several bulls thing. Soccer *excuse me* futbol is much more sensitive. Actually, I think I have to experience just how intense Eurofutbol is before I can decide which sport is brutalest.

7. Realized the school around the corner from my house is called "Bleeding Heart of Jesus" school. Sounds much better en espanol.

8. Tried to pour vinegar on my right thigh to soothe my sunburn. Kind of worked. Sitting has become a horrible activity though.

9. Got fresh sheets and towels at home. No matter the country, a clean and cool pillowcase is sometimes all you need to feel at home.

10. Planned to learn how to ride a bike this weekend so I don't have to keep walking 5 miles everyday. I'm 20. It's about time. I'll finally know what people mean when they say "It's like learning to ride a bike."

Sunday, September 11, 2011

Malaohmygawd


As I attempt to write this blog, I realize I can only share about 4% of my thoughts and theories and experiences. Some don’t translate, some I forget, some are not worth sharing. Here are some I decided are worth sharing. 

I’m on my second Renfe train ride right now. Stopped on the tracks just around sunset next to a wall filled with graffiti. Might as well be MetroNorth from Grand Central to Scarsdale, yea? No. Because there are Malaga mountains with pueblos of white townhouses in the background and farms and factories in the foreground and as I said before, no picture can remotely capture 
how awesome these views are.

I’ve just spent the weekend with my roomz and our ‘mom’ Ana in her beachside apartment in partycity Malaga on the southern coast. I had plenty of time to swim in the Mediteranean (casual) and lay out aka burn. First, I got stared at by Malagans for being so white. The next day, they couldn’t help but ogle my extremely sexy burn lines. Think waves of red and freckles on my arms. Now, on my way home, my arms have been complemented by a beautiful rojo coloration on the back of my left leg. No, I will not be sharing pictures and yes, I am steadily convincing myself this will fade to a non-awkward tan as I liberally apply aloe. How ‘geri’ (stupid American) I look.

So, Malaga is like Miami. It’s more diverse than Sevilla, which I didn’t expect. I also didn’t expect an obsession with fried fish or a eurotrash party scene or to burn. (I should’ve at least expected to burn.) Ana and her friend since childhood Loli greeted us at the train station where Courtney and I could barely communicate in Spanish. We were exhausted from the crazy week and the two and a half hour train ride from Sevilla to Malaga.

On the train we witnessed a strong fashion trend that has persisted to pop up everywhere: Japris. These are jean capris, typically whitewashed, and worn by men. They tend to be ill-fitting and flamboyant, but no one here would agree with that statement since the masses are donning them. However, since the train was about 2*C and Sevilla had been 45*C (translation: 107.5 to freezing), I was jealous of the japris because I was wearing shorts. Now, I have my on-fire skin to keep me warm.

So Loli came over and we had some carne de membrillo with fresh cheese and a baguette around midnight. Carne de membrillo is actually a lovechild of fruit leather and jelly, not meat as one might expect. I have been scarfing it down since Tuesday when we first met. The others enjoyed Murcia, a miscellaneous sausage item that Loli described as “like a hotdog, you don’t really know what’s in it, and you don’t really want to.” Loli also encouraged us to find Spanish men because the best way to learn Spanish in en la cama. Wise words from a 60-year-old Andalusian? Not my style, but thanks.

Loli was not the only childhood friend of Ana’s around. In total, we met 15 different people on the beach, all her cousins, or her sister-in-laws, and then her son’s girlfriend’s parents drove us to the train station today, after a long discussion of 9/11, American culture, and how we like (or don’t) life in Spain. Mouthful of connections there. Really exhausting.

This is so out of order, but that’s how my thoughts are. Jumbled and garbled like an Andalusian accent. So last night, Courtney and I started walking down the beach to what we thought was the centro of Malaga. We actually were totally going to go down the wrong street but the sketchiest man ever with a dog without a leash approached us and told us not to wear our bags at our hips because people might steal them. He also said if we went down the street further, we would be mistook for prostitutes. He then made a thrusting motion to explain just in case we weren’t understanding him. Flattering. Really, we were flabberghasted. He had long dirty hair, minimal dental hygiene, and a blind dog. Trustworthy, right? Anyway, Paco decided to lead us in the right direction. We maintained three arms’ length away at all times and did not pet his dog. We were bugging but had no other way to go and there were some other people on the street anyway. Courtney was silent, and I was yapping away because I felt more comfortable filling the air with words to assert myself.

Thank goodness for Paco. He showed us his parents’ home and introduced us to some random people as his cousins. He pointed us exactly where we needed to meet Ana and Loli for dinner. Too bad they were 95 minutes late. We had 2 drinks each waiting and then, much to our dismay and confusion, did not follow with dinner. Ana and Loli took us on a walking tour of the city. Right behind the center, a Roman amphitheatre, an Arab fortress, Picasso’s birthplace, a huge cathedral, and a Cheers bar to top it off. We’ll have to come back for all of the museums and tours because we decided to spend Sunday back at the beach rather than at mass. We were exhausted from a night of what you could hardly call raging at a place called ‘Club London’ where people of all ages (I mean ALL) and all nationalities were technically ‘together’ but failed to interact.

In Spain, people don’t dance. They just bob, drink, and stare awkwardly at American girls. If you dance close to someone, you’re implicating you’d like to go home with them. We were planning on going home to our apartment, so we danced alone and avoided eye contact, except for with two other foreign girls also having fun alone. As we bounced to American music from three months ago, we noted that all the men were wearing japris or equally confounding outfits. Even if we had wanted to find men, we wouldn’t have known who was batting for what team.

So we took a taxi home where the driver eagerly told us the two phrases he knew in English (“Oh yeah” and “Ohmygod”) and then repeated them OVER and OVER for the 10 minute ride at a euro a minute. Wonder where he learned those. Courtney was saved from seeing his thrusting motions in his seat. Second thrusting man in 7 hours. Sevilla is way less perverted than Malaga.

By Sunday afternoon, we were too again exhausted and entirely freaked out by Malaga culture. On the beach, women of all shapes, sizes, and ages find it completely acceptable to traipse around in just bikini bottoms. Why even bring tops.  Men walk up and down yelling “Cerveza, Agua, Fanta, Coca Cola, Tinto” to try to make you buy drinks to stave off sun poisoning and utter dehydration. Then, you go into town and are accosted by men who speak little English but have mastered global body talk.

So we hid in the house, made some tomato and olive oil salad, and watched 6 episodes of Sexo en la Ciudad. I’d say it was a winning afternoon after quite the adventure.

And now we’re going home. We missed Sevilla. We are enchanted(ish) by the incredible wealth of diversity in culture in Malaga. We’re on the train, watching the sun set behind the mountains, eating some omelette sandwiches. And yes, it does feel like we’re going home. 
Welcome to the Mediterranean
Not sure it's real
Oh wait, that's me. I was there. So it must be real.
View from our other bedroom balcony

Our swanky beach apartment

Just your average eurofountain

Sunset in the mountains from the tren - byebye, Malaga.

Friday, September 9, 2011

Fotoblog

From the mosque gardens looking at the south wall of the Cathedral. I think.

Once, an Egyptian king gave a Spanish princess many presents. One was this alligator. The cathedral still has it. #strangemarriageproposals

My cathedral door is cooler than yours.

The Spanish Princess was married on this altar, which has a pictographic gilded chart of Jesus' life featuring more than 3000 figurines. And a lot of gold.

Where Big Bird was baptized

Harry Potter 8?

Mom and Dad, redo my bedroom ceiling as such, please.

A priest's changing room? I don't even have a walk-in closet.

Crowns donated by sevillanos for a STATUE of Mary/Jesus. Gold, diamonds, emeralds, sapphires, and lots of potential tax dollars.

Rising up the Giralda. at 42*C. Worth it to see these flying buttresses.

I live here.

Actually, I live there. In the middle. Really far back. And walk to and from there to school everyday. But it looks like this, so it's worth it x1000.
These images are better in real life. Really. Much better.