No Pa Americano

Today, America came to me in many ways.

First, I got a surprise letter! The first and only piece of mail I have/will receive in Spain, I bet... Michal (who I often refer to as "my married friend") sent me the cutest letter with a candy and it absolutely brightened my day - if not my semester! The little things really do count, and she's a pro with life's small charms.

Later on, after 7 hours of class, I was inspired to eat an entire plate of fries, some sweet olives, and some of a chocolate sandwich washed down with a pint of tinto de verano, Andalucia's sprite+wine blend. A whole bunch of us went out for our second-to-last Cien Montaditos (Like a Spanish McDonalds?) Euromania Wednesday, hence the absurd amount of strange foods strung together. Afterwards, I guilted myself into walking home the two and half miles. And then decided I HAD to go to Zumba.

And Zumba was bomb. I got there a few minutes late, in my host brother's t-shirt and some pink plaid pajama shorts, looking like a real workout stunner.  But, since everything in Sevilla starts ten to 20 (to 30) minutes late, I was actually early.

The music came on and we had some nice salsa and merengue steps going and then, after about ten minutes, the beat totally changed...

TO COUNTRY MUSIC. And then Elvis impersonator. And then full-out swing. I found each knock-off American tune more laughable than the next. I won fake gym money for my smiley enthusiasm!! I always thought of Zumba as the sexy workout, with these suave latin beats and smooth hip circles. Apparently, when you go to a Spanish-speaking country, they exchange their music and dance for Americans. I should have guessed this based on my experiences in discotecas, listening to last year's Top 40.

Anyway, I had so much fun I was inspired to become a fitness instructor one day. But that's currently as laughable as doing Zumba to 'Twist and Shout'. I've got a lot of two-steps and cha-chas down that path before it's a reality.

Now, I've got new music stuck in my head... Music of a generation. Five femme fatales who showed the world what Girl Power meant. And I'm going to their country TOMORROW.

Zigahzigahhh....

Really really cool stuff

Yesterday, I thought we were just going on some dense tour of the architecture of the Cathedral. I'd already been there thrice and it's beautiful every visit. The world's third largest Cathedral, in Spain's third largest city - something that large and historic will make your heart skip every third beat. That said, I still don't know the vocabulary in either English or Spanish for the different bricks, walls, columns, tiling, etc that form such a grandiose structure.

The tour was normal until a man popped out of nowhere and unlocked a secret door and ushered us up some stairs TO STAND ON TOP OF THE CATHEDRAL. That's awesome. There's no way around how much that's awesome. So so awesome.

I got to not just look at a flying buttress but stand next to a whole bunch of them. We were like a large group of guiri gargoyles, climbing spiral stone stairs from centuries ago, looking down at the ant-people commoners in the city. We were high and mighty.

We saw 'graffiti' carved into the stones from the 1600s, geometric outline tracings of the domes underneath (so that's what a boveda is!), and did I mention flying buttresses!? Yes, I did. But it's worth rementioning. Silly word, crazy structure, dreams coming true.

Now that's a field trip.

I am writing my final paper about this window?

Oh. Oh. Oh.

Gargoyle graveyard?

Me, Liz, Spires, BFF.

Up, up, up to the top.

Done. Study abroad complete. Buttressed.

Buttressed in every which way.

Hi, I'm the Hunchback of La Catedral.

Happy Hannukah!

And later that night I went to mass again. But that's a story for another time...

Evaluation

Today, in one of the two classes I made it to (#gronersleephabits), I took a break from looking up Stonehenge tours to fill out an evaluation of a professor who is just lovely. I apologize for not hearing much of what he said today, but I just couldn't take another word of Arab poetry as suffering in love.

Anyway, I want you to evaluate me now. Top10 fan Elizabeth Baxter sent me this cute little article about study abroad blogs, and I took the time to read it and think about how I do.

"1. Look Sharp"
I think I'm doing okay here. I like that my background is a Blogger staple, not something I took myself, because I'm simply not talented or hipster-y enough to get a good enough photo, and the content is way more important anyway, right? If I didn't think so, I'd just be wasting space in the cybersphere and your newsfeeds/inboxes/RSSs. I am now considering something simpler though...

"2. Know Thine Audience"
I often joke that this is just for my mom and my grandparents, but I got 57 hits yesterday. And I do not have that many grandparents. I know five hits were Elizabeth and if all the grandparents/aunts/uncles/cousins read, I'm still short a good 20 people... How can one "know thine audience" in this anonymous online culture? As much as the audience is important, this blog is really just like a public diary and I mostly don't care who reads it. So, I guess this goal falls largely to the wayside. Wompwomp.

"3. Keep Em Guessing"
There are things I've left out. But they aren't on here, so you don't know that... Well, now you do. I have to have some tantalizing tales to tell people when I get home, right?

"4. Cliche Firewall"
I believe cliches exist because oftentimes, they are a good common way of expressive a relatable sentiment. Still, this Lexi Nisita has it right - calling wine vino is a toolish move. I try not to fall to it to often but sometimes words complete slip my mind in English and I'm blogging at 3 a.m. But, while I promise to never tell you that "Paris is the world's most romantic city," I really am pretty sure my senora makes the greatest tortilla espanola, and I'm not going to call it 'potato omelette' either.

Nisita briefly mentions the grand summations of one 'feeling more mature and independent' or 'weeping' at great works of art, (and while I facetiously mourn the relative lack of history and culture in America) I find that quite the opposite is the case. I feel young, like I learned how to be fun again after sophomore slump had hit hard. I'm less independent because my senora has cared for us in a truly dreamlike way (and honestly, this was so not the case for other families - I lucked out.).

So, like I said, sometimes study abroad is a cliche. When you land in a perfect host family and you're exposed to a new lifestyle, you are susceptible to some level of grand sweeping statements about how your life is forever changed.

I haven't changed much: I couldn't wake up this morning. I spilled coffee on my shirt as I went out the door. I took the not-so-glam metro to school. I still talk really fast and like organizing plans.

But some things change: I went to the gym today. I'm okay with eating dinner at 10 p.m. I like lentils. I've been to Morocco. I take deep breaths (sometimes). I don't call my mom in between classes.

I sort of speak Spanish, and I definitely couldn't say that before.
Semester success!

 Me, still Stef. This blog, just on Stuff.

Misa

With just twenty days left in a Catholic country, I figured it was about time to go to Sunday Mass. They should really start an online review book or guide to misas of Sevilla. There is a church on every corner. You can't miss them, you can't avoid them - they are everywhere. While I'm big on wandering in and out of the churches I pass, I'd never been inside one when anything was actually happening. Never seen a priest orating, a church-goer kneeling, a communion cookie being eaten.

Cathedrals always seem really old. And filled with shiny, old things. Lots of gold, jewels, paintings, Jesi. But to see pews filled with people (without cameras) was a whole new thing. I felt really rude snapping a few shots sans flash but I wanted to make sure I documented the experience well. Joan was a great host (which is also what you call a communion cookie). She had a little booklet that served as a guide to the mass order, all in Spanish. There was lots of "Dios" and "Senor Jesucristo" and "Amen" so I got the general gist of things.

Little girl wipes hand of Mary statue as guests kiss it.
Somewhat unsanitary. Very holy.

Forgive me, Father, for taking this picture.
Sounds and flash were disabled. Le prometo.

One of the key explanations I've been given for what differentiates Catholicism from other types of Christianity is the belief that the wafer for communion is the body of Christ, rather than a representation or symbol of it. So, it was kind of cool to see people go up and get a piece of this blessed cracker and eat it and literally, in their opinion, take in Jesus. After taking communion, most people went to kneel on what I used to think was a foot rest (until my mom corrected me in 6th grade at a confirmation service of a friend). Everyone put their hands with fingers crisscrossed under their chins and seemed very deep in thought. I'm not sure if there's a prayer you're supposed to say or what, but it was very nice to see everyone really thinking about higher powers and such at the same time. It felt to me like the silent part of Shabbat services does, except at this point I was contemplating Jesus and the cookies and usually I'm thinking about chicken soup.

Papa do preach.

Another supergreat part of the service was a point where everyone shakes the hands of those around them and wishes peace upon one another. I think we should do that all the time, but if I start it tomorrow on the way to class, people will think I am a crazy person. From visiting more churches than I can remember to museums full of Jesuspaintings to dressing up as a nun for Halloween to getting a tour of a convent from a nun, this semester has been filled with a lot of Catholicism. Now that I've gone to mass, I'm practically among the masses.


Really, I found it very touching though. And it inspired me to finally look up where churches get the communion wafers. Someone out there is mixing the ingredients? Is there a special ingredient? What takes the cracker from wheat to body of savior of millions of people worldwide? Clearly, I have some more research to do. But I think I've gotten a good start.

Then I went home on the bus, got bored, and took this picture of another bus. 

The Weekend Review

Pictures are worth a thousand words and I'm way too exhausted from all this commotion to write that much anyway. Win-win, since you all seem to love the photoblogs anway. The first couple pictures are from Thanksgiving day. This is hopefully the last time I'll mention it - it was so awesome but so was yesterday, which is what the rest of the pictures are from. We had a touristy day around Sevilla, hitting up Casa de Pilatos, where the Mediacelli royals still live. We then headed to the Setas for a lunch and stroll and surprises abounded! Spray-painting recycling bin festivals, tons of Roman ruins, and stellar views of our hometown. The day ended with churros, as all good days do. A day in Spain without fried food really isn't Spain at all. Enjoy!

Spanish host parents from our street get slizzard. Far left, my host mother drinks directly from the bottle. #FTW

We had to do a retake because Ana said she looked old and fat.
I think this came out great.

Close-up of our very normal
and functional family

Six americans and their Spanish host families equals one weird Thanksgiving.

MySpace style self-takes always look good.
Even in the duchess' gardens.

My entryway looks like this, too.

"Take a picture of me for my mom."

Audioguides and old pilars really
have become routine. I don't think I interned
a single word this guide said.

This palace has over 100 different mosaic patterns.
It's like an optical illusion headache.

When the ceiling is so fancy,
you can hardly tell which way is up.

Standing on a giant pile of waffles, looking at a city, appearing to be Photoshopped. The usual.

Chicago painted cows. NYC painted apples. Sevilla paints recycling hubs.

Architectural marvels or disasters? Time will tell. I say they're just weird.

I just asked these people to take a picture with me. 

Under the mushroom/waffles, a man in a funny
hat fries dough squiggles in a vat of oil.

And then we eat it. And the day ends.

So many ways I could go

I guess I could blog about how nice sleeping in was after the epic Thanksgiving food coma.
I could also tell you about how I showed up at work at 12:l5 PM but no one was there, so I went shopping instead and came back an hour later.
I could also tell you about my senora's lovely cousins who came over for lunch - which involved Ana stuffing leftovers down our throats, including my last piece of kosher meat.
I could detail the subsequent nap, or the time spent planning the final bits of my UK/Ireland adventures for next week.
Later, trying to explain how to "Boom, Shake, Drop" according to the Pitbull song, but in Spanish, at the gym was utterly entertaining for all involved.
The last option would be the discoteca adventures of the night, hiding from authorities, discovering BK has mozzarella sticks, and getting smushed with a huddle of 17-year-olds to American hits.

But, I think the overviews just about cover it.  I just have a bit of word-burnout. I can't give you hundreds everyday, but here are a few to hold you over.

Agradecer (v): sentir gratitud

Dear Ana Maria Luna Cabrera, Mi Querida Senora,

Mil gracias y mil veces mas, gracias. Thanks for somehow putting up with my antics in throwing a twenty person thanksgiving in your driveway this afternoon. Thanks for  appreciating my MarthaStewartesque centerpiece. Thanks for making enough sangria to get everyone blasted. But back to basics, you made turkey with a fancy walnut gravy before I even woke up. Still in pajamas, I came downstairs as you began mashing potatoes. Sorry I didn't put on a sweater like you told me to, but it was seventy degrees and I liked my knit cap sleeves. Besides, I was warmed by your glowing presence, and the excitement of the eighteen other people at the table. We had more food and more love and more lingual confusion than any thanksgiving in the world today, I bet. Somehow, a gourmet American feast came out of an itty-bitty Spanish kitchen in a matter of hours. What began as a gloomy and glum week filled with memories of families and food an ocean away ended up as the most wonderful story of intercultural peace feasting.

And after it was all over, you smiled, and I knew it was good. "Vale la pena," the Spaniards say. As we settled into fleece blankets on the couch with some herbal tea you call "Infurelax" that may be made of drugs illegal in America, and we started watching Woody Allen's Scoop dubbed in Spanish, I was happy happy happy. I feel at home and you are my family.

I promise to make my bed every single day for the rest of my time in Spain.

Love always,
Your somedozenth host child,
Estefania

Giving Thanks

I never realized how much I liked Thanksgiving (and America in general) until I uprooted to Spain for three months.

Now, I'm missing the huge family gathering at my house and I'm really sad about it. My brother even brought home a friend named Stephanie who is probably sleeping in my bed. I have been utterly replaced. Mostly, I'm dreaming of cranberries, beating myself up for not having my parents bring a can. Cranberries are native to America. As is Thanksgiving.

Also, I completely forgot I even wrote anything about Thanksgiving on this blog until HerCampus re-posted - they also present the occasional Stef on Stuff highlights.

So, my dear friends, it's time to give thanks.

Thanks, family, for sending me on the most amazing semester-long learning experience. Thanks, host parents, for making this a most cultural experience in the best way possible - even though you fed me shark. Thanks, Spain, for teaching me a "Don't Worry, Be Happy" way of life,  that beer sometimes tastes good, and that learning outside class is what counts most. Thanks, Courtney, for putting up with my keyboard clattering at one a.m. and general lack of bedmaking.

Thanks, Ryanair, for  flying me all around Europe for pocket change. Thanks, Judith's family for Shabbat dinner in Paris. Thanks, Julie, for a quality Yom Kippur weekend in Barcelona. Thanks, monkeys in Gibraltar, for being so cute. Thanks, summer job, for paying for all of this spending.

Thanks, CurvesNervion for motivating me to wear sneakers for consecutive days. Thanks, film professor for letting me show up an hour late to 9AM class and not minding at all. Thanks, Calle Betis, for the free sangria on Thursday nights and the sweet American songs on the overhead speakers.

Thanks, you reading this, for vicariously living through me/making me feel so popular - almost at 5000 views! But actually - recording and sharing snippets of my semester through this blog has helped me connect with you all over the world and reflect on all of the things I'm so grateful for.

Most of all, thanks, Sevilla. I am the quintessential study abroad student. I love this city, I love this country, I love these friends, I love this learning, I love this life.

Sevilla's slogan is "No me ha dejado" - Sevilla has never left me.
It's cheesy, it's lame, but I'm going to say it anyway:
Though I'm leaving Sevilla so soon, the city will never leave me.  I may have to give up siesta and sunshine, but I won't give up the 'no pasa nada' spirit.

For that, I am thankful in so many new ways. And I'll get over missing the cranberries. Maybe.

Shark Attack Pt. 2: Rise of the Eel

So Northwestern's study abroad department sent someone to town to coddle us through our 5/6th done meltdowns. We were sick and exhausted and it's rainy and cold and we all hate seeing those 'Thanksgiving at home with the fam!' facebook statuses. Seriously. You put that up, I will defriend you. I closed my computer yesterday because I literally couldn't look at my computer, in my bed anymore. Too many cold, rainy, slow days in a row.

But that was yesterday. Today, the study abroad coordinadora came to hear our thoughts on Sevilla (generally great), Sweet Briar's program (generally good), University of Sevilla (jokes), and our homestays (amazing). At the suggestion of a friend's friend, we ended up at a group dinner at El Toboso, a very very expensive and nice restaurant in our area. NU was footing the bill. Getting out of the house and putting non-pajamas on was a healthy change. We were happy.

Then I realized that any bill NU foots is footed by my tuition, program fees, administrative fees, and soul, all of which they have graciously taken from me and my family. I was then determined to enjoy this dinner even more. Eleven of us shared tinto wine and croqueta varieties while discussing what to order. I looked over the many tasty fish options and decided I couldn't settle for cod or anchovies. I ordered rosada, pink fish, which sounded yummy and fine and not creepy. And it was SO delicious. Tasted like fried chicken. Should've known that was a bad sign after episode one.

I get home with Courtney and we snuggle into our beds and I decide to just check out the American name for 'rosada'. There was no screaming or shouting this time. Just an "You've got to be kidding me. Eel? EEL? I just ate something called CUSK-EEL? Ew. This isn't funny."

But, it's actually really funny.  And now the shark in my tummy has a friend. A full-size eel. Or two. I ate a lot.

Sevilla, thanks for teaching me to roll with the punches.

"Un Rayo De Sol... oh oh oh"

It's a shame that after a rough week, I finally feel whole again, only to realize I'm in the last 25 days.

I literally just began to feel alive and self-sufficient and energized after several days of disease and exhaustion with a sprinkle of tears.

The next 25 days have to be spent finishing off the bucket list and just hanging with my senores. Today, I enjoyed dancing a little sevillano with Sebas before lunch. Who's going to do that with me in the sorority house? Meanwhile, there's a palace to see and some Spanish sushi to eat and some views to look at. Too bad I'll be spending 12 of the 25 days in the UK and Ireland. Some tough life I've got.

One thing that definitely helped me overcome my mysterious and unfortunate illness was sunshine. After dozens of groggy and dreary days, the sun decided to bathe Sevilla in a warm embrace. I'm feeling poetic today. And much healthier.

One of the only photos of this woman wearing clothes.

We finished watching Lucia y el sexo in cine class this morning which was about Lucia and el sexo. The protagonist kept singing this song about sunshine and love, which occupied a semi-permanent place in all of our minds. We spent the rest of the day humming this song. In this class particularly, I have seen way too much of Paz Vega this semester, Spain's only female movie star besides Penelope Cruz. Lucia y el sexo was the icing on the naked Paz Vega cinematographic cake.  The song is called Un Rayo de Sol, a ray of sunshine. All I needed to feel better.

In case singing this song doesn't work, someone PLEASE buy my a UV lamp for winter in Evanston.  

Saturay Night in America

Rain is likened to liquid death in Sevilla. "Don't go out! It's raining!" or "You need to put on socks!" or "Be careful with that umbrella!" are all common statements on these drowsier days.

Since we were so cautioned against the outdoors this weekend, we figured a movie and mall night would be perfect. Seeing the American hit "The Help," released in Spain two months ago, at 7 PM, would be no problem. And getting dinner after at TGIFridays, not an issue.

Oh, issues abounded. 

1. The lines at the movies were insanely long. All of Sevilla was going to see something at this siesta rainy hour. When we finally got to the front, I was shocked an confused that the only seats left were in the first row. For The Help. On a Saturday late afternoon. Two months post-release? Seriously, Spain? You don't even understand southern 1960s racial tensions. This is ridiculous. 

2. We tried to get some palomitas (translation: popcorn, direct translation: little doves) and cokes but the lines were just as long. And crowded from the overflow of senoras heading in to see "Criadas y Senoras" (translation: The Help, direct translation: Maids and Housewives). We were mob-crowdsurfed into the theater. 

3. The movie starts and I spend the next two and a half hours thanking my mother for forcing me to read the book this summer. I would not have followed the funny dubbed voice of Emma Stone through her emotional journey against racism. A moment of salvation came when the dubproducers decided not to change the gospel singing. That would've sounded so awkward in Spanish.

4. I guess I understood enough because I teared up a bit toward the end. We left the theater and were startled by the worst noise you can possibly hear in a large, open-air shopping mall: a gunshot. We didn't know if we should run for cover (where?) or if we should be scared (did that just happen?) or if we should just go on with our lives (it can't be a gunshot, right? We're in paradiseSpain!). We eventually went to a window  to see what was up... A bunch of 13-year-old boys were being hauled off by the police, no one appeared harmed, and some taller-than-their-friends-the-criminals girls were jumping up and down anxiously. That was all very unsettling.

5. We went into TGIFridays without thinking to check the menu. I sat down and realized I had a choice of onion rings or nachos. Both priced double American menu plus euros. I rationalized it by saying I was paying for the experience of being home, and I had gone to the gym everyday that week, and I had a cold, so I deserved it. There is no legitimate reason to eat your most expensive meal in a foreign country at an American chain fast food spot, but I found quite a few. 

The evening was all-in-all very much a needed escape from drearier Sevilla days. I guess I need a couple pajamas-in-bed hours of sneezing to realize just how great the last three months have been. I also know that, as happy as I am here, I'll somehow be ready for real America (and not just badly dubbed films and over-priced grease) in four short weeks. 

Un Dia Malisimo

Today was the day I was glad to be coming home in under one month. I woke up with one killer headache and general body ache. I made myself one stellar breakfast for an easy-over egg with tomatoes and toast. Too bad everything tastes like olive oil. My tastebuds were not down. They are just so over my failed Spanish cooking.

When half of my program fees go to a senora (who I tend to rave about all the time), why was I cooking for myself, wearing the same pajama shorts I’ve been in for a week? Oh, right. She has been gone for nine days. And nine days too long. While I have lived on my own for the last two years, I have regressed to kindergarten status. This woman does my laundry, makes my bed, and packs me lunch for long school days. Even though I insist that I can do it all myself, I’m starting to doubt it. She is a fairy godmother. Who went on vacation to the Mediteranean beaches of Alicante. And left me alone to starve in filth.

Clearly, I am exaggerating since she left a full fridge of food (mysteriously all gone. Fingers pointing at 34-year-old son) and someone came to the house and organized my make-up and put away my shoes twice in the last week.

Today, on the tenth day, I broke down. My mouth could not handle the olivey slippery egg taste. My tush did not want to wear those stupid plaid pajama shorts. And I could not handle one more episode of “Dieciseis y Embarazada” to watch while at the dinner table alone again.

I just gave up when I went to make some frozen pizza (Spanish delicacy) and found a true horror in the kitchen. An INFESTACION DE HORMIGAS. Hundreds of tiny black ants running all over the walls and countertops. Where did they come from? How can I mercilessly murder them all? Why are they here? Are they baking into my pizza? I feel so itchy! Ah! Meltdown mode! Madre!

I just went in and performed my fourth antquisition of the evening. I am now scratching and slapping myself silly in psychosis of little black beasts crawling all over me.

Thank goodness I just heard the gate open. They are home. Glory.


(Post-writing note: I just attacked these two senior citizens I call my padres with so much excitement and joy, I can't even begin to tell you. (Well, I just began...). Ana instantly killed the ants with a spray. Far more effective than my wet paper towel method. She is already rectifying my life. I love them so much.)

The Only Don Juan I've Met in Spain is a Statue

I went to see Don Juan this past weekend. No, that's not a reggaeton DJ. It's a historical play. I was too excited about Gibraltar to tell you all earlier. Also, I wanted to be fair in my portrayal and I was too confused afterwards to properly recount the evening.

Think James Bond meets Hugh Hefner. The concept of a ‘Don Juan’ is world-famous and has been for centuries. Turns out, the legend was born here in Sevilla, after Don Juan del Temorio made a bet with a friend to see who could kill more hombres and bed more mujeres in one year. On the night the bet comes to an end, all hell breaks loose. Friendships are destroyed, schemes are made, nuns are corrupted, and swords are swashbuckled. Ultimately, on his Judgement Day, Don Juan finds salvation in divine compassion because this story was written many centuries ago. Instead of being a pimp who took names, he suddenly succumbs to the glory of Catholicism and change his ways. I see the ending as more tragic than spiritually uplifting. He died brutally, and he didn’t stick to his game. Don Juan spent his days running the show. He was the first ever player. Everyone loved to hate him and hated that they loved him.  What happened?

Don Juan: Before he gets humiliated by G.

So, why am I telling you this whole tale? So it makes sense when I say I did not understand the last scene of the play at all. I knew what was going to happen all along because a friend’s host father took us on a 75 minute tour of Sevilla, reading us lines of the play and stopping at various city locales that relate to the show on the way. It was long and at times, his excitement was overly infectious, but I learned a lot and saw some sweet things. 1. The alleged bar that Don Juan and his buddy made their bet. Still a bar, hundreds of years later. Next to what used to be a monk-run hospital. Not there anymore. 2. A statue to Don Juan that I vividly remember visiting with my Spain/Israel 08 tour group. There’s a picture of us there. Weird déjà vu type feeling. 3. Palm trees in Sevilla, with bottles of medicine stuck into the bark – the tropical delights are perishing from an awful virus! This had nothing to do with the show, but it’s a fun fact.

After over an hour of walking, nodding, and smiling at this very kind man, I arrived at the show on the complete other side of Sevilla with no way to easily get home. Great.

The line was around the corner. Production of the year. We go inside and it seems as though the play is ending, the actors are horrible, and I am quite confused. Turns out the play was a play about a play. Scenes alternated between actuation of Don Juan, in full 1600s garb, and a ‘director’ in a suit and jeans screaming at the ‘cast’ who actually was the cast, playing a cast doing a production of Don Juan. Now that’s some meta stuff.

Sevillanos believe this really happened.

While I definitely didn’t get every word of the antiquated or colloquial Spanish, I met the two plays somewhere in between. The full theater experience can now be crossed off my imaginary Study Abroad bucket list of shows. So far, I’ve hit up two outdoor concerts, a romantic comedy, a documentary of dance, a contemporary dance company show, and a Spanish guitar quartet!? I am such a good friend of the arts.

Though the intellectual arts have been quite enjoyable, I’m going to try to fit in some Spanish karaoke next week. Juanes? Shakira? David Bisbal? David Guetta? Anything from America sung in an awkward Spanglish accent? Should be great.

Que mono es este mono (How cute is this monkey?!)

A guest preview of the blogs to come from my friend Meital who traveled with me this past weekend.

               Though Stef will go into much deeper and wittier detail the main point that everyone should walk away with about Gibraltar is that it is truly a magical place filled with culture and magic. A colony that one man claimed to have much more money than it knows what to do with, Gibraltar is a place that can have synagogues, chapels, and mosques right by each other. It is also the best place to lose your purse (as I did) because only in Gibraltar will it be picked up by a policeman and returned to you without anything missing.

               However, there are those in Gibraltar that should never be trusted. They only think about themselves and will not hesitate to rip your bag open and trash what they can get their hands on. But year after year people get drawn in by their luscious hair and pleading eyes, only to be attacked and fighting to get these creatures off their back. The Gibraltar monkeys are adorable, but ruthless. Still, they can make a long walk enjoyable, introduce you to your future husband, and leave you with some interesting stories for the kids.

Yes, I did think about taking that baby monkey home with me.
One of my biggest regrets in life is not having monkeynapped it.

My mom never did that for me.

Contemplating how to steal a monkey.

Two friends and a monkey. Who is who?

We climbed up, down, and around that.
Had lunch in the cloud. Actually.

Baxter magically lit up this cave.

Monkey chowing down on Gib Welfare-provided fruit

Meital, me (you should know that?), and Elizabeth atop Gibraltar's Rock

These may be my ancestors. 

These monkeys have no tails. Neither does Meital.

Adventure is out there.

If you were stuck in a tunnel in WWII,
wouldn't you at least be grateful for this view?

Was this before or after Meital got her purse returned
by a complete stranger in a foreign country?

Now approaching heaven.

Monkeying Around the Best Place Ever

Moviestar status on the tarmac.

Before the sun woke up, we did, in a hostel in Marbella on the Costa del Sol. Normally, I hate waking up so much, but because we were doing the coolest thing ever that I always wanted to do, I wasn’t so upset. We got on a bus to La Linea and walked through the border to my dreamland. No one checks anything - you just show them you have a passport. There’s a rule in the European Union called Schengen, after a tiny town in Luxembourg (other favorite place) and I don’t get it still. You literally can just walk into any country in the E.U.

Well we walked right through the airstrip and up into the town that makes up this entire lovely utopian colony. I had finally made it to Gibraltar.

Don’t ask me why I always wanted to go here. I have an obsession for places like Cyprus, Malta, Luxembourg, Monaco, San Marino, Andorra, and Gibraltar. Islands or peninsulas or single-city country-states that seem to generally do better than the rest of the world. I imagined Gibraltar like Disney World. And, it was.

Everyone there was smiling, friendly, and bi- or tri- or multilingual. Most spoke with a strange Spanish version of a British accent which felt oddly familiar to what I’ve been speaking for two and a half months. They were just more interesting and worldly and impressive at first glance than your average global citizen.

My children MUST look like this.

We landed among a group of adorable school children in uniform with the same silly accents all lined up in a plaza. Armed guards assembled and directions were being given with crowds of Gibraltarians and tourists around. It was 11/11 at 11:00AM – how could we forget? No, not 11/11/11 at 11:11. They were remember the end of WWII. Also important. We were excited to make our grand wishes at 11:11 AM though. Which we subsequently forgot because…

I stumbled upon a full KOSHER DELI. I knew that Gib had a big Jewish community but hadn’t made a concerted effort to plan out finding them. This place has PsekZman and Bamba along with tons of meat products. I could only get a package of turkey since we were on the go but I took a requisite “Stefanie-thrilled-about-eating-kosher-in-Europe” photo which seems to have become a tradition for this blog. It will not be happening in America since I have general access to Allison Dining Hall’s Kosher Station, Hillel, Meor, etc. (BH, either way). At a clutch sandwich shop nearby, the lady didn’t judge me for asking for tomatoes and Russian in a cup. Deli lunch glory for me.

We took the cable car to the top of Gibraltar’s giant Rock. We wanted the full experience. Not taking some taxi tour,  we wanted to walk. We’re able-bodied beings. Yea!

Happy meat day!

We walked 12+ kilometers. Advice: Take the taxi tour. It is not a scam. If you think you’re cool enough to walk (you’re not), wear sneakers.

There were so many characters on the mountain. A man in a van alone, taking iPad photos everywhere. I found my Gibraltarian tour guide husband, tie and British accent. We also watched a Chinese lady’s bag get unzippered by a MONKEY. So many monkeys. Did I mention the monkeys? Well, there are  A LOT of monkeys in Gibraltar. There is a photoblog that goes with this one, largely dedicated to funfacts regarding these monkeys.

We continued down the mountain to St. Michael’s caves. “This cave has never seen the light of day,” remarked Meital. Yes, Meital. It’s a cave. There were stalagmites and stalactites galore and cool historical stories I won’t bore you with. The stalagmites (or is it –tites?) drip on you sometimes and the echo is wicked, but generally, it was natural and awesome.

We got lost and ended up at a ‘battery,’ a large military structure where two guys were smoking a fat joint overlooking the Mediteranean and Africa. While there wasn’t much to see, the battery must’ve been useful because only two bombs fell on Gib in WWII. Waytogo, Gib!

This is me in a cable car in Gibraltar. Go read about that.
It's the best place ever.

Then, we headed to the famous Pilar of Hercules. Not a pilar. Not Hercules. Big disappointment. However, as the former gate to the ancient world, once topped with a giant statue showing the power of great empires, nerdy me was decently pleased. And we could also sort of see Africa from there.

Next, we took another wrong turn and ended up at “Jews Gate,” in a huge graveyard. A creepy man 

approached us, greeted us, and proceeded to chat us up for an entire hour. Our hurting feet welcomed the rest for the first 30 minutes but by 45, it was too much. The man was the graveyard tombologist. The cemetery had estimated over 1000 graves of Jews who could not have all lived and died in Gib. Very mysterious, no one really knows, this guy is being paid to study it. He also inspired me to write a research grant to go back. Gibraltar is a giant and mysterious playground for nerdy big kids. Like me.

What is your name? I didn't catch it in our HOUR of chat.

We walked another two and half km to the WWII Tunnels which are as cool as they sound. Tunnels, with stuff from WWII. A weird statue barked at visitors, “Halt! Who goes there!?” and I definitely jumped. The tunnels were an interactive museum, kind of like the entire island.

Don't mess with Baxter. Or this guy.

The only thing we didn’t see is the '100 ton gun.' We really walked EVERYWHERE. Right back over the border and home to Marbella on the last bus out. As the sun set over the mountains and coastline, we reflected on our perfect day.

Everyone in Gibraltar is too nice. Some helped us find a bus. Another told us his life story. A third found Meital’s purse and returned it to the police, all euros and passport included.

Nothing about Gib disappointed me. I had history, culture, funny accents, Cadbury Caramel, kosher deli, and monkeys galore.


Anyone want to move there with me?

Baxter photography. Cred for MANY of the better photos in the photoblog, too.