Boo!

Halloween. An American day of costumes and candy. Not a holiday in Spain. However, due to the intense fascination of Spaniards with American culture coupled with the endless amounts of free time, this country is ready to dress up and party tonight.

We’re getting our alter-egos on to party with my host brother and his friends tonight. He’s 34. So are his friends. They were in high school when we were born. It’s just not happening. We’re closer in age to Justin Bieber, while they’re closer to Obama.

But, that said, it’s always good to practice Spanish with locals.

Spain seems a little confused, or perhaps just a little behind, on how to do Halloween. Costumes here are actually supposed to be scary. A playboy bunny or a sexy firefighter are drastically confusing to Spaniards. After telling LuisManuel what we’re going to dress up as, he exclaimed, “With blood?”

No, I’m not going to wear blood as part of my costume. In American Collaween (college Halloween) is contorted as an excuse to wear something indecently ridiculous and go out. But good try.

Another missed fundamental of Halloween is chocolatechocolatechocolate. I doubt anyone on my street will be giving out mini Hershey bars much less King-size Reeses. I think they would just be very confused if ‘those stupid americanas’ randomly showed up at their doorsteps at twilight.

My ideal Halloween is wearing your pajamas as a costume, ringing the doorbells of your neighbors, and eating lots of candy.

In Spain, Halloween is blood and alcohol. Sounds more like wartime than Halloween to me. 

Here are my top 5 Spanish cultural Halloween outfits

            5. Unemployment. 21.5%, hombre.

            4. Futbolista, the world’s pastime.

            3. Francisco Franco, the reason Spain is behind.
            2. A Spaniard. Jean-capris, muscle tees, lip piercings, cigarette –blend right in.
            1. An American. You know one when you see one.

Let's just hope the neighbors don't judge us. 

Oh wait, pretty sure I was judged when I was seen trying to learn to ride a bike in the driveway.

Don't bother with a "boo" - nothing is scaring us tonight.

Irish Heavymetal

It was another slow Saturday in Nervion, Sevilla, Espana.
Courtney and Stefanie had a wild Friday night with foreigners and Spaniards galore and on Saturday morning, the only thing to do was sleep and drink water and eat bread.
So they did.

At approximately 4 PM, I woke up from my post-too-many-lentils-at-lunch nap and picked up an assortment of friends to go to an outdoor "alternative" concert at the Buhaira Gardens. These medieval gardens are halfway between home and school, so we pass them multiple times a day, but for whatever reason, had yet to actually enter their big metal gates.

Outside your casual medieval castle, a small stage was set with a guitarist whining along with a violin while their dad played drums in the back. Urgh, maybe I should've stayed asleep. Luckily, their set was almost over and we took front-stage spots for the next band.

"Hola, Somos Champagne SuperNova."
Yup. That was the band's name. Pronounced ShamPAHNSuepairNova.
Half the band was wearing Ramones T-Shirts. They thanked us for coming out despite the cold weather - 70 degrees.
They proceeded to cover Wonderwall, Red Hot Chili Peppers, and of course, a little bit of the Ramones. Don't forget their rendition of "Twist and Shout."

Us Americans were ecstatic, laughing and singing and dancing. Such excitement is really inappropriate in Spanish society but we were living up the afternoon.  Afterwards, the guitarist invited us all to go out with them later. Official ChampagneSuperNova groupies?

After them, a fabulous group came on, definitely playing alternative music. The bagpipes were a dead giveaway. Or the recorder. Or the black electric violin. Or the number of collective piercings and tattoos.

Well, self-expression is alive and free in Spain and I'm so glad so many Irish Heavymetal enthusiasts found each other in this city.

The rest of the day involved shopping, eating, shopping, eating, fancy drinks at the Festival de Naciones, the discovery of veggie burgers in Sevilla, and a long conversation about voting, civil society, God, man, and America with an old man who's chin looked like a butt.

Life is Irish Heavymetal in front of an Islamic Palace. Life is counting a man's tattoos at 2 AM by the river. Life is considering homework and burning toast on a Sunday morning.

Life is unpredictable. Life is funny. Laugh at me or with me or through me - I hope you're enjoying reading what I'm living.

Una Copa y Una Virgen

Our host mom is always scolding me (and sometimes Courtney) for being lazy and not seeing enough of Spain. Shocking that I might be totally worn down after three straight weeks of touring. Ana was right to get us out of bed on Friday afternoon though. I'd slept until eleven thirty, eaten breakfast, pretended to do homework, eaten lunch, and gone back to bed. By 5 PM, non-pajama clothing was in order.

We had plans to go to the museum of the Inquisition (because who doesn't enjoy literal torture, right?) but first, there was some festival to stop by. "La Copa EEVEE viene" - I had no clue what the copa EV was, or why it was coming.

We met up with Ana's friend Victoria, and the four of us walked down to the river. Next to the shiny Torre del Oro was a tiny tower of platinum, a rubber puzzle-piece tennis court, and a bunch of cameras and suited people.

The Davis Cup, the physical trophy, had arrived in Sevilla. We were at a cute little press conference featuring the mayor of Sevilla, the head of the Spanish version of USTA, and a bunch of little kids with little Wilson-sponsored shirts and racquets.

I'm so jealous they got to play next to the Copa EV. EV was just Sevillano Spanish pronunciation fails. The "Da" and "s" part of Davis were not deemed necessary for comprehension. I had to be affronted with a huge platinum pedestal and bowl in order to know what she had been raving about for a week.

After some touristy camera phone pictures I will probably never see next to the giant shiny trophy, my senora walked up to the mayor and double-kissed him. She knows everyone. It's kind of like having the same mother, but 20 years older and Spanish.

The inquisition museum was closed (fail) so we took a cultured stroll into two of Triana's finest churches. Triana, where Carmen (the famous opera protagonist) was from, is the barrio on the other side of the river. It's the home of the other soccer team, gypsies, and ceramics.

And some big churches. Ana educated Courtney in Jesus' family tree by pointing out every single biblical figure on each tapestry, painting, statue, etc. I continued to marvel at just how many riches the Catholic church possesses - so much porcelain, artwork, tapestries, stained glass, gold, jewels, etc. Spain is swimming in bling.

We saw a total of 50+ virgen statues. Apparently, one statue has a 'rivalry' with another one on the other side of the river. It's like futbol clubs, but the match-up is Mary vs. Mary.

Overall, we had a lovely afternoon with our 60something-year-old besties and ended the cultural day with a cana and a tapa (beer and tortilla espanola).

At this point, we're basically locals.

Rain, rain, go away

I have cold feet.

Not the euphemism. My feet are actually cold. It's been raining (aka. torrential downpour every few hours) for a while now and everything is damp. We left Morocco and came home to not-so-sunny Sevilla.  While the fresh breeze is particularly lovely, the weather casts a gloomy, dreary air over everything. Wompwomp.

Last night when my roommate was ready to leave the discoteca someone stopped her and said, "You can't leave now! It's raining!" At work today, the internet wasn't working and the root of the problem: the rain. This region is ill-equipped for a little sprinkle. It's like a big outdoor shower, Andalucia. It's not that dangerous or scary. (Note: I was at home last night, sneezing from whatever Morocco-related illness I contracted. And the fact that it's 50 degrees freezing. Clearly, I am falling into their rain-inept habits.)

On a more serious note, major floods in Northern Spain, Italia, and Tailandia are proving that I'm not the only one stuck in a rainy rut. Reports from Evanston indicate that global warming has induced torrential downpours completely worldwide.

So what do you do when it's a rainy day? Well, if you have the greatest host mom ever, she makes two pots of chicken soup - one for the kid who "doesn't like meat" (direct quote from lunch today) and another separate pot for those who eat chicken freely.

It was the best chicken soup ever. It had noodles and carrots in it. And I am so not asking how she made that broth. Too good to be (K) true?

Food art. Directed by Ana Maria Luna, while laughing at what a weird American I am for photographing food.

Even when my megavideo 72 minutes of How I Met Your Mother maxed out, I took a deep breath (new skill, thanks Spanish lifestyle of slowness) and inhaled the sweet smell of rain-fresh air from my window. It's my favorite smell, making rain not as upsetting.

Sevilla, I would much appreciate if you did not rain any more, but for now, I'm just really glad I got a chance to snuggle up, sleep in, and chill out before midterms hit.

Did I mention that the questionable chicken soup was to die for? Repeat at dinner.

Is that it?

Sometimes, I'm walking around in Spain and I think to myself one of two things, "Is that it?" or "Really? Seriously?"

There are two good examples of such incidents in the last 24 hours.

"Is that it?"
I try to do culturally-engaging things while I'm here. Elizabeth and I made plans to check out a food festival called "Eating Sevilla" today. We had two hours to kill this afternoon after enjoying our packed lunches by the river. A class had been cancelled due to a student protest/assembly about tuition hikes. (Note: tuition here is still about 10% of what we pay, dear old Northwestern...). We walked down to the Plaza and meandered through several huts of the same types of cheese samples, trying all of them, largely unable to distinguish between the goat, cow, and sheep varieties. All tasted kind of moldy, kind of parmesan-y, kind of bland. We arrived at the final stall on the row, only the sixth, and stared at some cakes for a while before Elizabeth exclaimed, "Is that it?" Yes. That was it. The food festival allegedly representing the rich Mediterranean diet, protected by the UN as a cultural phenomenon, was 6 plastic tent huts filled with cheese, some anchovies, and some cake.

The concept of "Is that it?" could be classified as underwhelmtion - the state of expecting something as 'bigger is better' due to American standards of what makes something great. Sevilla's 'festivals' may be tiny and seemingly insignificant but truly, the mass of cultural attempts this little city makes is impressive. That must count for something. Maybe tomorrow's fashion show or the Month of Dance will bring more small but precious cultural gems that we must evaluate as such. Simple and small is precious, and not in a patronizing way. We are still adjusting our standards of 'whelm' and figuring out what should under- and over- our whelm meter while in Europe. Much of what we do just falls off of any chart we have.


"Really?
A woman walks down the street wearing a shirt that says "Make Love, Not War." She is ten months pregnant. Ha. Practice what you preach. Or just stop wearing English shirts! From the profoundly profane to the utterly nonsensical, Spanish fashion is swimming in words, words, words. The level of proficiency in English is far lower than my level of Spanish. And I couldn't figure out what the cashier was saying when I bought some cheese today ("Do you want a bag?"). I've seen "University Paris Sex Professor" and "California State of Missouri" and "If I were an animal, I will be {picture of cat}" and "You are my best friend. I love your crazy dance. Our best party are Saturday night." These are shirts from MAJOR fashion retailers from all over Europe like Zara and Pull&Bear and Strativarius. Anyone looking to hire a fashion copy editor and proofreader? Other "Really?" moments include the ice cream workers' protest today by the Cathedral, the amount of day-drinking happening constantly, having a five minute tribute to Paul Newman on Spanish evening news, and the woman wearing all cheetah-print pajamas on the subway at 2 P.M.

But really, that's it. I love it here.

Montage me, Morocco

Oooh.

Welcome to the glamorous Kabila Hotel.
Since the 1970s.

A picture of me. I'm not just making this stuff up.

Moroccan children don't have things to do on Sundays.
Besides stare at tourists.

Maria and me in ChefChaouen. 

Me again! Plus Livy, my weekend long bus buddy.

Look! A candid of me and Tessa having fun!
Or throwing each other off this cliff? 

Sororitastic takeover of Morocco.
You roll your eyes, but you know its cute.

I'm guessing it says "Stop" or something about Allah.

I can swim home from here.

If you really love me, you'll go buy me these in Tetouan.

Tupperware bargaining? I'm in!

Authentic pictures of real life things.

One of the cats that made Morocco smell yucky. But was still cute.

The guy up there's wife?

Danny and the forbidden Mosque of Tetouan.

More creepy kids-in-alley pictures? Really? Yes.

In need of a paint job. 

Christmas colors or national Moroccan colors? Hmmm.
Given by the Christmas lights all around, harder decision than you might think.

An ominous mosque. Say that five times rapido.

Let the Rain Fall Down and Wake My Dreams

Getting home so late from Morocco, so damp, so worn out, and so happy to be home, I was so so so grateful for the dry fresh sheets and new comforter Ana put on our beds for our return. October 24 and the weather is expected to drop into the seventies this week. Brrrr. More exciting and terrible was the torrential downpour that kept me up till six and woke me up at ten, just in time to arrive for Arab literature class (where I wrote the last 2000 words for this very blog!).

I had not seen rain since the rainy day we arrived in Sevilla. This is my first full week in Sevilla in nearly a month. This week also marks around halfway.

Halfway. Here is where we can chose optimism or pessism,  half full cups of sangria, or half empty bottles of tinto. Both seem okay. I can't get too bitter. 

Luckily, I’ve been reflecting all along with you and this blog. So I can hardly forget a moment.

I’m also still sure this is a parallel existence. I’m convinced that when I go home, I’ll just pick up where I left off, with the sweet memories of my espanola vida behind me. I have an image of my driving down Central Avenue to go buy some shoes and groceries, or maybe going to City Center movies to see a romcom with a friend. Or yelling at my sister for stealing my clothes while I was gone.  And Sevilla will literally just be a dream, where I happened to get better at Spanish and learn some about myself.

This morning it was raining and last night it was raining and each drop is like that pinch I need to wake up and live rather than just dream it. It’s the call to action that I start an internship tomorrow and want to find a language-exchange buddy and need to look at winter courses and study for my midterms here.

It can rain and rain and rain but I’m still going to feel unreal. I just went to Africa and Paris in the same week. 

I'm out of this world, or just on another side of it. 

Very Nice, How Much?

I'm blue dabadi dabadai.

When we woke up Sunday morning (still damp, of course), we had to check out already. Shortest vacation ever. We boarded the bus (where we spent about 40% of our time anyway) for ChefChaouen, a beautiful blue and white city squished between two mountains. The name means “with a view of two mountain peaks” – creative. Clearly, I’m fluent in Arabic now. Or actually, that may have been Berber. Our excellent tour guide, a candidate for 2012 mayoral elections in ChefChaouen, told us that and a thousand other fun facts on a back roads city-wide tour of ChefChaouen. The city is all painted blue and white, with four to five yearly paint-times. Politicians and organizations give out bright periwinkle paint like our government gives out cheese and tax rebates. America should consider this model because it is unforgettably stunning.

Future postcard children of ChefChaouen.

As we snapped photos of adorable children, they all shouted “No no no!” Words they learn from their parents so tourists don’t photograph them, in fear their children’s faces will end up on postcards. Don’t worry, my photography skills are far from postcard quality.

As we continued our camera documenting on streets and in courtyards, I thought about the equivalent opposite in my life: a ChefChaouen tourist coming onto Northwestern’s campus and taking pictures of me likely writing a paper in the library or eating snacks on my sorority’s couch while watching wedding reality television.

That time I dodge a goat in a Moroccan mountain range.

We were still in a live museum where no one had asked the subjects, the exhibits, if it was okay for us to watch, photograph, and step through their laundry by the river. When a herd of goats charged through our group, I knew I was getting an authentic feel for Northern mountain Morocco life.

We had some great bread and a delicious salad (we gave up on the “Don’t eat the vegetables because they’re washed in water and you’ll get the runs” thing because it looked good, and we were going home soon.) and as a vegetarian, I got a plate of curried vegetables. Everything had so many olives. Good thing I learned to like those since I’ve been in this hemisphere.

The coordinators told us to meet outside the Kasbah (what’s a Kasbah? Sounds like Plaza. Kind of is one. Figured that out on our own.) at 4:30 PM sharp. I exchanged 20 euro for some Dirham, Moroccan currency I was then compelled to spend because taking it out of Morocco is illegal. We locked down into bargaining mode, mentally preparing ourselves for some haggling over plates, bracelets, scarves, blankets, leather, and spices.

Chillin in ChefChaouen. 

It’s really weird to go into a store and see no pricetags. Remember WordGod? Now I was playing PriceGod – I make the pricetags. But, like any game, if you’re drastically ‘off,’ the shopkeeper laughs at you and it’s awkward and you lose. No, scarf-selling meanie, I still don’t believe that pashmina was hand-made or worth more than 5 euros, and I am still incredulous at the fact you laughed in my face. My $3 New York pashminas laugh at you and your market stall lies, too.

Around the corner, in an alley, a tiny old man in a shop with few wares climbed a stack of chairs and benches to grab a plate/bowl (plowl or blate?) off of his wall so I could bring it home for my senora, who collects decorative wall-plates.  I had to hold the top bench secure while Katie and Megan spotted him from side and behind.

I don't even know what these are, other than pretty.

Once we’d explored seven different alleys and bought all of the souvenirs we needed, we were exhausted and done. Some stores sold cool Moroccan things. Others sold plastic jewelry made in China and bootleg Nokia cellphones. There was no rhythm or rhyme to the snail soup shack next to the pajamas next to the mass-produced leather bracelets.

I walked away with some bracelets, a plate, and some weird soapy-perfumey mineral blocks. (And no scarf, you dumb overpriced scarf man. If anyone sees a reasonable forest and gold paisley scarf, please let me know, as I am now pursuing one). Overall, it felt very touristy or like gambling. Even the best bargainer could get completely ripped off and not ever really know – this was not a winning game and I had thought, since I am a persuasive and persistent arguer, I would love it.

A rare group shot. A common pretty view.

It was definitely a fun and enriching experience, as was everything in Morocco (okay, not the kids jumping under the bus part). I used my remaining dirham on a sandwich and some water and chocolate-covered oreos to share with my friends on the ride home.

I slept fairly straight through the next several hours of transit from bus to ferry to bus. We lost two hours, which landed us in Sevilla at 3:20 AM. You may guess that 9 AM class was unlikely for that morning. It became more unlikely when my neighbors and roommate and I could not find a cab. And walked home in just 45 minutes, all luggage in tow. I was in a complete daze.

By 5:12, I was in bed, exhausted, happy, and slightly more worldly, one might add.

The Only Full Day I Have Ever Spent in Africa

We woke up to a wet hotel in a wet city called M’Diq. (Twenty-year-olds are not too old to make uncultured jokes about the name M’Diq.)  I had fallen asleep in on damp pillows in a hotel room with a finger-sized lizard on the window. Everything was moist and still, we were thirsty, and brushing our teeth with water bottles from Spain.

After a quick “American-style” breakfast (apparently, we eat ham and yogurt and croissants and juice every morning, right?), we boarded our buses for Tetouan, city #1 on the tri-city adventure. Our tour guide never introduced himself and gave a couple shpiels throughout the day but the city told its own story in seconds. One: The nameless tour guide told us not to take pictures of the police or they will come and delete your memory card. Two: We looked naked compared to everyone on the streets. All eyes stared us fortysomething shouting Americans down the streets. Three: In a moment, we walked through a horseshoe-shaped gate and went back a thousand years in time.

His highness' household. Sort of like a vacation home on the northern coast. 

Flip-flops and cobblestones are not friends, which I should’ve figured out between Sevilla and Paris but it never hit until my feet were not just pained but also disgusting from the absolute squalor of Tetouan’s medina. Since Jews and Muslims built the tiny winding streets together in 1500, homeless cats have used the city as their toilet and the smell was somewhere between rank and putrid. 

Welcome to Gaza?

As we walked down “Gaza” street, the blocks shrank and the walls grew. We were in a maze. Reason #3569 not to travel to Morocco without a guide. You’d never get out.

We stopped in a spice shop for a sexy tourist demo of various spices and oils and perfumes typical of Morocco, all to be sold in a tacky auction style at the end. We then walked to a carpet shop, also with no identified signs or directions, where they did the same shtick, rolling out rug after rug, some gorgeous, some hideous. Tribal prints just aren’t my thing. Since no one bought anything there, I guess I’m not alone in that. Hand-woven shawls started at 140 euros. Ha. I’ll stick to Target’s home section.

I think this was tea with absinthe.
Still not sure if that's legal.

We lunched on *surprise* soup and couscous in a swanky little touristic restaurant, complete with giant gourd-like guitar and singing man with leather drum duo. Then a tiny man danced and contorted himself with candles and tea on a tray on his head. It was weird but very impressive – he was much better than the last season of America’s Next Top Models, who epically failed at a similar task in one of the final rounds. This guy would’ve beaten all the models.

We headed out of Tetouan and on to Tangier for some camels and caves. On the way, we witnessed two events that will forever demarcate Morocco in my mind. One: as we rode into the city, I noticed many young boys running alongside our bus, near our bus, towards our bus. And then my seatmate Livy gasped, “Ohmygod there’s someone under the bus.” Sure enough, the boys were climbing on back, top, and under our bus. First there was one, then two, then five, then estimates of twelve to fifteen fine gentlemen hitching some sort of ride with us.

When you realize that these people attacking your bus will do just about anything, like climb under a moving vehicle, to get out of their port city and into Spain, your heart paralyzes. When I was that age, I was deciding what my screen name should be and writing vocabulary stories for 6^th grade English in Mr. Hilpert’s class. These kids – they were jumping on tour buses with about a 0% chance of actually making it and a much higher chance of being seriously injured. As we wound up a mountain away from the port, some police chased the boys off and away (successful on the third attempt).

Farther up the mountain, our bus came up behind what looked like a giant protest, clogging the street. You don’t want to be stopped almost vertically on a Moroccan mountain ten minutes after you held your breath as little boys monkeyed all over your vehicle. Then, we saw the protest was actually a funeral procession of about fifty men in full traditional garb carrying a wrapped dead body. 

I was watching Al-Jazeera.   This was a New York Times photo. This was not real life.

Morocco's Sarah Palin residence:
"I can see Spain from my house."

Too much culture for a half hour planted us firmly in tourist central, atop a cliff overlooking the ocean, inside a grotto with a market and splashing waves, and finally, on camels off the highway.

Light at the end of the tunnel. Hercules' Grotto.

My mom had just been talking about how she didn’t let my sister ride a camel at a gas station in Israel once because it was dirty and stupid. Well, this was dirtier and stupider. Also, the gut-wrenching noise of a camel not wanting to stand up as a man smacks its knees and neck is as heartbreaking as watching little boys climb under a bus coated in soot. Actually, it’s a worse noise. It sounded like how I imagine a dinosaur crying.

Still, I got on that camel, and a man shepherded me around in a circle as I yelled, “PETA does not approve.”

As the sun set over the ocean, we took romantic group photos and headed back to our hotel for dinner and raging. My program was going to have a fiesta and we definitely did just that.

Camels in their natural habitat. A parking lot.

Junior Year in Spain with Sweet Briar College takes over Morocco.
We looked way less organized about four hours later.

Some people went to a discoteca that was discovered to be exclusively for Moroccan men and prostitutes. While not there, I masterfully broke a beach umbrella while hanging with my friends by the pool after an energetic dance party with our tour guides. I tried to ask the front desk man if he’d seen a key a friend had lost and because of his lack of English combined with his lack of teeth, I had no idea if he had the key or any idea what I was saying. 

Overall, the night was good and with a two-hour time difference, we were in bed by two and happy with our safe-inside-the-hotel fun.

Moroccouscous

After leaving my parents on a bus to the airport, hoping they'd somehow make it to Madrid, I came home to unpack and repack yet again for my weekend in MOROCCO.

I went to Africa. This invokes so many different stuck-in-your-head tunes from Shakira to that song about the rain down in Africa. As I sung them the entire 8 hour trek there, my enthusiasm waned and quivered a bit...

First, the bus was cool and whatever. Spanish countryside is kind of like driving through Nebraska. Then, we showed up at the port of Algeciras (which is pronounced like the Islamic TV network, basically). It. was. beautiful. Breathtaking mountains, a stretch of oceans, and a perfect sunset. As we sailed off on a ferry, we were warned about drinking the water and joked about being sold for camels.

The clouds at the port in Algeciras.
Warning of the seastorm about to destroy me on the ferry?

Twenty minutes later, I felt like I was drunk of infected water while sloppily riding a camel. That's as closely as I can describe the feeling of seasickness that washed over me in the hour from Europe to Africa. I just put my head down and tried to sleep it off.

Land was the only cure. We got off in Ceuta, a Spanish port essentially like a Guatemala Bay of Morocco, but with fewer hard feelings and militaristic functions. Then customs took a casual three hours, stuck on a bus. Not that we wanted to get off the bus. We were scared, mystified, and overwhelmed. The clothes were different. The language was different. And we'd given up our passports to a man we just met, wearing a black cape with a pointed hood.

No identity. Nowhere to go. No one we knew. I would've felt helpless if I hadn't been listening to uplifting Spanish versions of American Top 40s, feeling like I was on Spring Break! Wooo!

Eventually, the unmarked policemen led us through a series of barricades and checked our passports for the fourth time. The people outside, from old men in jeans to young girls in hijab, crossed the border or hovered anxiously on either side - camping around, staring at us.

We passed through - I felt like I was intruding on their lives, a human museum I had paid the entry fee for, but never asked the performers if they wanted to be watched.

The next two days were absurd, challenging, incredible, shocking, educational, silly, and unlike anything I imagined or previously knew of.

Also, the couscous I had in a tagine the size of three basketball hoops, when we finally arrived at our hotel at midnight - it was delicious, and made up for a total of 8 hours in transit.

And then they served us each 5 scoops of ice cream. With whipped cream and chocolate syrup.


We were Morokings and queens. And very ready for bed.

Door to the next two days. Intricate, decrepit, plastered.., all these words apply to what lies ahead...

No es mi culpa and Casual Nun Fun

You don't realize how awful service in Spain is until your parents show up and you go out for every meal. Not once this week have we waited less than 35 minutes for a check at the end of a meal. Asking for a glass of water becomes an ordeal, hand motioning that you really just want tap water, not bottled, not mineral, not seltzer, not a tapa - just water from the sink. Nevermind, I'll have a coke. Don't even try asking for a lemon after.

We were so excited to order a cheese lasagna, an item that can hardly be found meatless in America. We were silly to believe that we could have our lasagna and eat it too. It came with ham. When I asked the waiter if we could just see the menu to order something else because we were 'vegetarians,' he yelled at me, "No es mi culpa, tienes que cobrar." Okay, no one was blaming anyone, I was offering to buy MORE food, and had already planned to just give the lasagna to Courtney. Calm yourself, camarero. If tipping was a thing in Spain, we would NOT have tipped them. As we waited for a check yet again, we joked about ordering breakfast it had gotten so late.

Not all service in Spain blows. Today, my mom and I went on a walking tour of a lesser traipsed area of Sevilla, La Macarena (Hey, Macarena - aightt!). My host mom's younger son's girlfriend is also named Macarena. Anyway, the 'tour' consisted of us walking into 8 different churches and looking at idolic statues of Jesus at various ages, San Juan, and un monton de virgenes. In La Iglesia de La Macarena, we had to walk behind one altar with the Virgin in order to see another altar with the Virgin. (It's confusing that she can be in two places at once but the statues were shiny and pretty, so whatever.)

At the third church, my senora ran into a nun-buddy of hers. Apparently, her husband Sebas, a latin professor, used to teach the Catholic tongue to nuns. The nun, 400 years old and roley-poley, began to give us a very complete tour of her convent and chapel. One third of the way through, she realized we didn't speak Spanish. Halfway through, just after the story of Saint John's pilgrimage to Jerusalem, my senora informed her we were Jewish to which she exclaimed, "And this whole time I've been acting like you knew these stories!" Nope. Pretty sure you just gave us a biography of every saint, a full description of every painting and sculpture, and a oral history of your convent. So actually, we're all caught up - thanks!

You are my new friend. I think your name is Rosario. Or maybe you were talking about a rosary. 

After a cute picture and some parting gifts from the roley nun, we enjoyed a day of more eating, more walking, more museuming (we were the only ones inside Museo de Artes y Costumbres - it was kind of creepy but cool! That's what you get for doing things during siesta time in Sevilla), we had a relaxing evening of more eating and pre-departure errands.

My parents are off to Madrid and I'm GOING TO AFRICA TOMORROW. Shakira's African lyrics taught me "Zaminamina, ay ay, waka waka, ay ay." Do you think I can bargain in a Moroccan market with that?

Paris in Pictures

A little late, but chronologically before Morocco (even though I'm posting after - yes, I play with the dates and times. Technology lets you do that.) Just some of my favorites here. Many more on the FB.

Everyone you know who has gone to Paris has a picture here.

Marie Antoinette's hair used to get caught in the chandeliers.

We're in Egypt. It's just down the road from Paris.

Those vegetable people.

I am the height of most trees in Paris. Thank goodness for Napoleon.

The Yiddish bakery was pretty outside and delicious inside!

You can guess my camera didn't take this. Kate's did. Not photoshopped.

Hideous modern art outside Versailles. History - 1, Contemporary  World - 0.

This picture is as common as the Louvre Pyramid one.

This is where we stayed.

Europe encourages a fascination of nuns.

 O merde! Il est Napoleon. 

How did you even get so famous, you tiny painting with black dots for eyes?

More beautiful than the Mona Lisa. And more delicious. And fewer angry tourists.

Notre Dame awarded Best Stained Glass.

Just your morning Pan Au Chocolat on the way to the Louvre.

And your average Yiddish deli feast after. Note: This is halfway through the sandwich.

Feeding birds, kicking pigeons. Tuppence, tuppence, tuppence a bag.

This is what we did. 

An artsy statement about the younger and older generations of France, beneath the Arc de Triomphe.
Paris yearns for the past. I photograph them doing that.

You cannot take pictures in Musee D'Orsay.

Ari, the Palais Royal, a cool bridge the Russians(?) gave to France, and the River Seine.

Oh, Paris.