Te quiero, Granada

GRANADA

Frederico Garcia Lorca

Granada, calle de Elvira, 

donde viven las manolas, 

las que se van a la Alhambra, 

las tres y las cuatro solas. 

Una vestida de verde,

otra de malva, y la otra, 

un corselete escocés 

con cintas hasta la cola. 

Las que van delante, garzas 

la que va detrás, paloma, 

abren por las alamedas 

muselinas misteriosas.

¡Ay, qué oscura está la Alhambra! 

¿Adónde irán las manolas 

mientras sufren en la umbría

el surtidor y la rosa? 

¿Qué galanes las esperan? 

¿Bajo qué mirto reposan? 

¿Qué manos roban perfumes 

a sus dos flores redondas? 

Nadie va con ellas, nadie; 

dos garzas y una paloma. 

Pero en el mundo hay galanes 

que se tapan con las hojas. 

La catedral ha dejado 

bronces que la brisa toma; 

El Genil duerme a sus bueyes 

y el Dauro a sus mariposas. 

La noche viene cargada

con sus colinas de sombra; 

una enseña los zapatos 

entre volantes de blonda;

la mayor abre sus ojos 

y la menor los entorna. 

¿Quién serán aquellas tres 

de alto pecho y larga cola? 

¿Por qué agitan los pañuelos? 

¿Adónde irán a estas horas? 

Granada, calle de Elvira, 

donde viven las manolas,

las que se van a la Alhambra, 

las tres y las cuatro solas. 

Bem vindo a Portugal; Sand drifts can't keep us down (part five)

Although we needed to get going fairly early on our last morning in Portugal, mixed messages had us all scattered. Samantha and I slept until our last minute possible, but the other girls had gone out to see the small fisherman town in the light of the morning without the rain. Once we finally gathered our things we headed for Cabo de Roca, the most western point of Europe.

Once again, European road signs evaded us and we were confused in how to get to where we were going. After what seemed like ridiculous directions from a motorcyclist we actually found our way there. “Keep the ocean to your left,” he said, and so we did.

The coastline wasn’t sandy beaches, but ferocious waves crashing against jagged rocks. There were sandy dunes lining the road, but the waters were meant for fishing. The wind blew hard and we stopped to look over the perfect blue waters. We could see the Cabo de Roca marked with a lighthouse in the distance. We were so close!

We jumped back in the van all windblown and headed towards the point. The road was a two-lane highway and was fairly busy and sand lined the edges. There was a sand drift that had come in and completely covered our lane for a good 20 feet. As we started to drive into it, I got nervous. Apparently, Sam didn’t know you can’t drive in sand drifts. Our massive van quickly slowed to a stop, and within seconds we were stuck.

Sam tried backing out, but only furthered the vans descend into the sand. A Portuguese man in a jeep pulled over and walked to our window. He was speaking to us quickly in Portuguese and we had no idea what he was saying. Finally he said, “Español?” and we all said, “SI!” He explained to us that he was going to help pull us out, and he held up a small rope.

We didn’t realize how bad of shape we were in. Sam tried to tell him not to worry, that we didn’t need his help. But he insisted and didn’t leave. The wind was whipping so hard and pelting everything with sand so we hadn’t actually gotten out of the van yet. We finally stepped outside the van and saw what we had gotten ourselves into. Here are our first moments of realization:

After taking this video, I realized how much traffic was beginning to build up. We were smack dab in the middle of the main road to a major tourist attraction. Charter busses drove by with tourists clicking pictures of us, people looked at us in anger. It was then that I realized we needed to direct traffic. While looking for a part to hook up our van to the man’s jeep, we had found a neon yellow construction vest in the glove compartment, which is required to be kept in your vehicle. So, I put the vest on and went out to direct traffic. It actually worked, which was the best part. I stopped one side of traffic and let one lane go, and then after a minute or two, stopped that lane and let the other side go. Meanwhile, the man was trying to pull out our van and the rope had snapped. The van kept dying while trying to get out of the sand and he was pulling the dead weight. He just got out and retied the rope and kept going. After the first rope snap, four girls got behind the van and pushed while he pulled. We got most of the way out when the rope snapped again. We finally made our way out of the sand and couldn’t begin to express our thanks to the Portuguese man. He wasn’t going to leave our side until we were out, and he was so nice. We are grateful for his help and patience. The situation was just crazy between the man pulling our van with a jeep, the sand pelting us, and me directing traffic. The Aussies were right; we are a bunch of loose units!

After getting out we were only 10 minutes from the Cabo de Roca. As we pulled up, cars starting honking at us, people were waving at us—they were the people that passed us on the highway!! The charter bus full of tourists were all there. We really were a spectacle. I guess you can’t be a van full of American girls and not get attention, but then when you do things like get stuck in a sand drift, you’re impossible to ignore.

We all did our thing and took pictures of the most western point, hung out in the gift shops to hide from the wind, and got some ice cream. After seeing what we could, we loaded back in the van and prepared ourselves for the drive back to Granada. Our amazing weekend in Portugal came to an end.



I don’t think any trip will ever compare to this one. Not only did we find adventure, we made adventure. Portugal is an amazing country and so under appreciated. I feel like not only was the trip adventurous and magical, but every second was well spent. It didn’t matter if we were lost or getting in trouble because we were making the most of it. I will never forget my trip to Portugal with the girls in the van. And I will never forget that adventure is always there, it just needs to be found; or ran into.

Bem vindo a Portugal; A Portuguese Fairytale (part four)

With little sleep from staying out the night before, we all woke up and got our stuff together to not just go to Sintra for the day, but stay the night in a small fisherman village close to there. We ate breakfast and got ready, but the Aussies weren’t awake. Sam didn’t think there was any way in hell they were coming. The rest of the girls were amused that we had asked them a long. Finally, I walked into their room, and in my version of a whisper (we all know I can’t whisper) asked them if they were coming with us. They snapped out of their alcohol-laden slumber and got ready. Sam was in shock.

We all got ourselves to the van along with the Aussies, packing up and ready to go, but Nick had disappeared. He had gone to get snacks, and came back with four beers and a box of cookies. It wasn’t quite 11 o’clock in the morning.

We easily found out way headed in the right direction, and began what was appearing to be the smoothest day we had had on the trip. However, smooth for us was pretty bizarre for the Aussies. They were hung over and sitting in the back of a 9-passenger van full of American girls. Every few moments you could hear the clicking noise of Nick opening up another beer. As we drove on the freeway they began to notice how much attention we drew.

“Yeah, we’ve gotten used to that,” we said. “I would stare at us, too.”

We reached Sintra and immediately started out search for the Royal Palace and Moorish Castle. It didn’t take long, considering they were at the top of a tall, forested hill, and Sintra is a small town. We headed for the hill and started our drive up the curvy road, seeing the castle through the trees covered with ivy. Once we arrived, we entered the Parque E Palácio Da Pena, the land surrounding the palácio, which was basically a summer palace for the royalty of Portugal.

To say this area was beautiful is a grave understatement. This place was what dreams are made of. It was every fairytale rolled together, only real. I felt like any fairytale could’ve taken place within the walls of the parque. There was a luscious forest with ivy and ferns, beautiful flowers, cobblestone walkways, duck ponds, stone gazebos, quaint bridges, and anything else you could imagine would exist on royal land.

While the seven of us girls were gaping in awe and suddenly feeling like 6 year old girls again, imagining our lives as princesses and walking the premises of the summer royal palace in a mystical land, the Aussies were more than likely questioning their decision to come with us. They too were enjoying the landscape and beauty, but not mentally prepared for a day with seven American girls. They kept calling us a bunch of “loose units” which basically means crazy and unpredictable. However, I know we made their trip to Portugal extra special.

After walking through the forest and up the hill, we made it to the Royal Palace. Once again, it was so fairytale-esque, it didn’t seem like it could be real. Gray stone decorated with yellows, pinks, and purple tile work made up the majority of the palace walls. But the stonework was elaborately decorated with carvings and classic palace structures, but also with sea gargoyles, and slight Arabic influences. It was the most amazing palace I had ever seen.The Palacio Real in Madrid was so stuffy and over-done. Once inside this palace, it felt like a real home. It was beautiful but also reflected it’s purpose; a summer palace by the sea. From the palace you could see the Atlantic all around you, and the beautiful land below spotted with terracotta roofed houses. The inside walls were decorated with cooling yet cozy colors creating an atmosphere that represents how we often feel in the summer; refreshed and relaxed.
It was really interesting to learn about the royal family of Portugal, considering its history isn’t something we have learned about. The queen was originally from France, and over 6 feet tall. All photos of her with the king had her sitting down. The king was a good-looking man solidly built with a handlebar mustache and youthful eyes seen even through faded old photographs. Apparently he and the queen were in love and courted, but once they were crowned king and queen, their relationship fell apart and he took on multiple mistresses. Not every fairytale has a happy ending.

After a small break at the café outside the palace, we continued our walking through the forest to other landmarks on the property. The Aussies were tired, more than likely experiencing a mixture of coming off hangovers and being cold since they didn’t bring any jackets and it was a cold day. When the trip began they told us they had retired from walking. They had begun the Camino de Santiago, a pilgrimage in Spain, and ended it by taking a bus. Nick walked with us to our next sites but Dan stayed behind.

We walked to a cross on the opposite end of the parque, and back around to where we started to warm up and eat some snacks before heading on to the Moorish Castle. Once we reached the castle, I felt like I had slipped out of one fairytale into another, with many of the structures reminding me of Narnia. How do you describe a castle? Its meant for protecting, not living. Its walls ran along the edge of the hill with a perfect view for seeing trespassers coming. The wind blew hard and the flags at every end whipped in the wind.



We were all freezing, especially the Aussies who had to borrow some sweatshirts from us, so we called it a day. The clouds moved in overhead threatening to pour, and we took the Aussies to the train station for a 30-minute ride back to Lisbon. They had been great company during the day offering much comic relief and helping break up the constant flow of estrogen in our nine-passenger van. We exchanged information, asked them to visit in Granada, and said our goodbyes. They will be traveling in Europe until November.

After dropping the boys off, the rain started to pour down and we headed to Cascais, the small fisherman town where we were staying the night. It was very close and we made it there easily and with a parking spot so close to the door we barely had to stand in the rain. The hostel was a perfect place to come to at the end of the day with comfortable clean rooms, a cozy living room full of beanbags and couches and a big screen TV. We were wiped out, but managed to get ourselves out and go eat dinner at a restaurant, the first time we’d really eaten out the entire trip. We went to a small family-owned restaurant with traditional Portuguese food, mostly consisting of seafood. It was the perfect end to a perfect day, and our heads hit our pillows hard back at the hostel. The next day we were going to Cabo de Roca, the most western point of Europe, and drive back home to Granada. We had a long day a head of us, and a long day behind us. We had no idea what hijinks we’d get into the next day.

Bem vindo a Portugal; Clang, clang, clang went the trolley (part three)

As it ends up, Lisbon is a pretty pricey place just to get into. We spent almost 40 euro just to get past toll roads and bridges. But we were welcomed into the city with a bridge identical to the Golden Gate in San Francisco, and a Giant Jesus that reached heights higher than buildings, arms outstretched. From far away, the Giant Jesus looked just like a cross. 

Well, as we entered the city and began our search for our hostel, it once again was looking grim. We decided to stop the madness quick and ask for help. We had discovered in our travels that bus drivers were the best people to ask for help. We pulled over at a bus stop where a person was standing, asked for a street name. Soon a bus pulled up, and the driver got out and came and talked to us. He had a bus with people in it, and he was obviously on the clock, but he still came over and tried to help. 

We found out in Faro that talking to Portuguese people can be complicated for more than one reason. 1) We don’t speak Portuguese; 2) They don’t often speak English; and 3) Although Spanish is very similar to Portuguese, they are offended if you immediately start speaking to them in Spanish. Apparently, it is a sore spot with Portuguese people that tourists often assume they speak Spanish because they share the Iberian Peninsula with Spain. Although Portuguese is a Latin language and shares a similar grammar structure and sometimes similar sounding words with Spanish, they are not the same, and therefore Portuguese people prefer if you speak to them in your foreign tongue, even if it isn’t close to what they can understand. However, with some people, we were able to meet halfway. They spoke Portuguese, we spoke Spanish, and for the most part, both parties were understood. However, we were having a slightly difficult time understanding the bus driver. He walked away, got back into his bus, and motioned for us to follow him.

I have never in my life had a bus driver motion to a car I was in to follow them. But then again, never in my life had I been to Portugal before now. So, we started up our engine and proceeded to follow the bus through the transit only lane. At least we were given the go ahead to break the law on this one, right? As we came to our turn, the bus driver turned on his signal and motioned for us to turn. We found the street we needed, and our hostel, and it was all thanks to the bus driver! Sam parallel parked the van perfectly in one try, and we headed to bed for a good nights rest.

Where we parked that night charged for parking starting at 8am, so our friend Nicola offered to be the one to wake up bright and early to put money in the meter. At 8:10 am we were woken by Nicola walking in the room.

“Sam, there are two tow-trucks, policemen, and a tram full of people stuck behind our car. I need 80 euro right now.”

Well, that woke me right up.  Apparently, our perfect parallel parking job wasn’t perfect enough. We were about five inches over a line that marked where the tram passes, and the tram couldn’t get by our van. The tow trucks were getting ready to pull us out when Nicola got there. Apparently the police officers were very nice, and moved our van for us so it wasn’t sticking out. We were charged for both blocking the tram and the tow trucks having to drive out there. At least our van didn’t get stuck in a Portuguese impound! And 80 euro split between seven people isn’t terrible.

After getting over the shock of our morning we set out to explore a little of Lisbon. Lisbon really is the San Francisco of Europe. Aside from the bridge that looks exactly like the Golden Gate, there are trolleys that run around town, steep streets, and a large river that pours right into the Atlantic. The weather was beautiful, and so many things about Lisbon reminded me of California. However, we had plans to grab lunch and take a trip to a beach 30 minutes away, and we just weren’t fast enough to look around town. 

It is somewhat difficult to get seven people all headed right away to look at the same things. We were all distracted in our own ways, so we didn’t go to many historical sites, but instead just took a nice stroll around town. I still enjoyed it though.

We headed back to our van, and headed out to a beach that was recommended to us. We pulled up into a small town no bigger than Salmon, Idaho and found the beach with it’s glistening water, huge waves and endless stretch of sand.

 I thought how fun it would be to body surf…until I saw many people doing another kind of surfing. Kitesurfing. The water was dotted with surfers holding onto ropes attached to parachute looking kites. It was amazing to watch them catch air and be suspended for about 30 feet before landing perfectly back on the roller coaster water.  I suddenly remembered my professor for my Civilization and Culture class in Granada telling me this area was one of the windsurfing/kite surfing capitals of Europe.

The wind made for a great sport to watch, but a terrible place to sit and sunbathe. Our bodies were sandblasted, leaving our skin agitated and dirty feeling. We attempted to withstand the beating, but didn’t last long. We enjoyed the fine sand and the view, but realized the beach didn’t work for our purposes. We went home and decided to find a grocery store so as to make a big dinner together.

After scrounging together a dinner that could feed seven girls, one being lactose intolerant, another vegetarian, and then me, gluten-free, we headed back to the hostel to make some food. We succeeded in finding more than enough food for under 20 euro. While we were preparing dinner in the kitchen, we met some of the new guests staying there. Two boys from Australia had just arrived and were hanging out in the kitchen and the common area. We all started talking, and got along pretty well. Between other guests in the hostel that spoke French, and then not being able to as easily communicate with people in Portugal, it was a relief to be able to talk to someone without having to go through awkward moments of miscommunication and language barriers. The Australians, Nick and Dan, were friendly and fun to joke with. While we made dinner, a man came in the kitchen advertising a pub-crawl to us. Five euro for several bars, and after thinking about it for a little while, and some hilarious persuasion from the Aussies, we decided to go.

Somehow we got separated from the Aussies, and headed out to the pub crawl with just us girls. Five of us went and two stayed at the hostel. We were a little confused how to get to the pub crawl (imagine that?) and some Portuguese guys told us to follow them since they were headed in that direction. They were really nice and held up the image of nice Portuguese people. Our way to the pub crawl was basically up one of the longest, steepest roads, which had we not been living in Spain for this entire time, may have crippled any newcomer to the area.

When we made it to the area, I don’t know how we could’ve found the pub crawl. Whereas in Granada drinking in streets is illegal, there was basically an outdoor discoteca set up in one of the plazas. A DJ was on a stage with lights and a video screen, people were dancing in the plaza, and little alcohol stands were set up around the edges. The streets around the plaza were buzzing with people standing outside of bars with their drinks, and inside of the bars it was fairly empty. We couldn’t find the pub crawl, so we settled for a bar that had 1 euro drinks.

As we went searching for other places to drink, we came upon what I like to call “Hashish Corner.” Basically, there was a small intersection of narrow streets between all the bars where men stood at every corner with either hash or marijuana. One man walked up to us with a small brick of hash and asked if we wanted any. We all said “no,” and turned around only to be faced by a man with a bag of weed. I must’ve said no a little too emphatically, because the men laughed at me.

Just after that, we ran into the Aussies again!  They hadn’t found the pub crawl either, so we all went to the same bar and hung out for awhile. Once again, it was nice to be able to have conversation with somebody. We had already had people come up to us trying to talk to us in Portuguese before they realized we had no idea what they were saying. We had a good time hanging out with them, and Nick and Dan’s sense of humor combined with their different personalities made them the center of attention. Well, at least with us. And let’s face it, Australian accents are just fun to listen to. Before the end of the night, Sam and I had fully laid out for them the hilarity of our trip; our wrong way streets, pedestrian areas, and interactions with locals. And then, we told them what we were planning to do next. The next day we were headed to Sintra, a town we had heard was “magical” in its fairytale like qualities. After getting along with them so well, I immediately invited them along.

“You have to go with us! We have two extra seats! It’s only 30 minutes away!” I said excited.

 

“What exactly is Sintra?” one of them asked.

“It’s a mystical, magical land!!” I said

 

Sam was certain they wouldn’t come with us after that description, but we all headed back to the hostel and Nick asked me if I was serious about the invite. We all went to bed in our respective rooms, and I fell asleep wondering if they would really go with us, and how the other girls would react when they found out I invited two Australian boys along for the ride.

 

Bem vindo a Portugal; Our bones rest side by side (part two)

The next day we woke up fairly early and headed to Portugal. Getting out of town was much easier, and we found our way to the freeway and into Portugal borders. Our first stop was Faro; a town we heard had a chapel made out of bones. We parked our van with the help of a local, and headed into the church that had the chapel.

The church was beautiful on the inside, as all European churches are. Ornate decoration covered the wall behind the altar, and gold plating lit up statues. However, this church was small and somewhat humble compared to the others. It wasn’t full of tourists, and the only people inside other than us were women of the congregation, obviously helping with their part of the cleaning rotation. It was quite refreshing to step into a church and know its primary purpose was as a church, not as a spectacle.

We paid a euro to one of the women working, and walked to the back of the church and out the back door into a small yard with overgrown grass and a massive palm tree. To our left, we saw the doorway to the chapel, decorated with femurs and other such bones.


You would think that walking into a chapel made out of human bones would be creepy, morbid, and unsettling. On the contrary, it was actually really interesting and intriguing. It wasn’t big, but when considering its material, it was massive. The entire chapel was constructed with the bones of monks that were buried in a cemetery that used to be behind the church. There were a total 1,245 skulls, and it was built in 1816 in memory of the monks that lived and died there. Above the door it read, “Stop here and think of this fate that will befall you.” In retrospect, this small church and chapel have been my favorite in Europe, because of their beauty and simplicity, but at the same time, extreme oddities.

After our time taking pictures and such, we headed to our next stop, Lagos. Lagos is in southern Portugal with picture perfect beaches. We wanted to do some sea kayaking, but discovered that the waters were too choppy. We headed to a beach recommended to us, and we could not have been happier. It often seems that beachfront property is quickly gulped up, leaving only condos and fancy restaurants. But the only thing next to the beach was a small lunch stop and parking lot, and the stairs that led us down to the water.
On the beach, there were only a handful of people other than ourselves. How such a place could exist, I don’t know, but it’s beauty and rock formations and caves made it more than just some sand to lay on. In fact, as the tide fell lower, and I explored the shores we couldn’t reach previously, I found a cave! In order to get in, you had to army crawl through the sand and water, but the cave was more like a big round hole in the rock. I felt like I was in The Goonies or something, having spent a day of looking at a bone chapel and then crawling through sand to find a secret opening in the rock. I have never had so much fun on a beach in my life!


We spent several hours at the beach, running around, swimming, laughing, and then decided to make our way to our ultimate destination; Lisbon. Of course, this meant we had to drive through town, and of course, this meant we would still be in some sticky situations. I am almost certain we made the news. I can see the headlines now, “Van full of American girls; clumsy and dangerous.” We ended up in some more impossibly skinny streets, the wrong way, in the middle of town with everyone staring at us. At one point, a man stuck his head out a window in a building and pointed us down which street we needed to take to get out. In Spain, we would’ve been honked at, looked at with disgust, and basically stressed out by everyone’s reactions. However, everyone is Portugal was just so nice! No one honked when we needed time to turn around, no one yelled or ignored us when we needed help. Even if they laughed at us, they still helped us and made sure we made our way out safely. Portuguese people are just plain nicer.

Bem vindo a Portugal; The Open Road (part one)

Every good story starts with a road trip. Friends piled in a car, their backpacks in the trunk, and the radio playing their favorite song. The fading light of the day and the open road are a beautiful sight. Road trips are the epitome of freedom, especially for college friends.

This last weekend, I took a road trip to Portugal with some friends. Not in a car, but in a nine-passenger van. There were seven of us, all girls, and we were ready for five days of discovering beaches, exploring a foreign land, and coming back with plenty of stories to tell. We came back with more stories and experiences than any of us had imagined.

We left Granada around 8pm and headed to Sevilla to spend the night. The van was buzzing as we all talked and fed off the energy of being on the road, heading towards a destination we had heard only great things about. The plan was to stay the night in Sevilla, and then head to Lisbon, Portugal the next day, stopping at beaches along the way.

Samantha, my friend from Texas, drove the entire trip. She was subsequently the only person who could both drive stick and had a license. Many of the girls on our trip had recently turned 21, making their licenses void while they were in Spain. (You can hold off any jokes about my inability to drive stick, I’ve heard it all before!)

Europe is an interesting place when it comes to road signs. Or should I say, the lack there of? Street names are mostly carved in a stone plate put on the side of a building, so you don’t know what street you’re on until you’re driving on it. As we arrived in Sevilla, we immediately started our search for our hostel. Little did we know, this search would last almost two hours.

In our attempts to get to our hostel, we were sometimes driving down streets that were impossibly small. Some streets were so small, our van barely fit. We soon began to question how such a van could even exist in Europe, considering how narrow some streets were. On one occasion, a motorcyclist had to help direct us around an especially tight corner. These people have driving in narrow alleys perfected to an art form.

Narrow street after narrow street, we could not find our hostel. We stopped and asked for help, and no one could help us. We drove the same road endless times, looking at our directions and not understanding where these roads even were. We headed down one street that looked a little larger, feeling better about heading in the direction we needed to go. That is, until we recognized the street from our previous trip to Sevilla.

“Ummm….I think this is a pedestrian zone only,” one of us said.

Next thing we know, our massive van is driving through a plaza. People stopped and turned around, hearing us come near. If looks could kill. We searched the side streets for somewhere to go, and pulled out of the plaza, only to end up on the tram tracks, and the tram right behind us. We pulled over between some trees, and tried to reassess the situation. Our adventure was just beginning. After finding our way back to a normal road and parking, half of us went in search of the hostel on foot. Only problem with this plan was that didn’t help us figure out how to get our van there. It was late, past midnight, and we were all tired. After having found the hostel, we came to a conclusion that we knew was illegal, but possibly our only hope. We drove back through the pedestrian area, back through the plaza, back over the tram tracks, and finally found our hostel…on a one-way street going the wrong way. It was very late, we were exhausted, and we had finally found our hostel. So, the complete a night of breaking traffic laws, we parked illegally and checked into our hostel. How this seemed okay, I don’t know, but we didn’t get any repercussions for it, and we slept soundly for the short while we had.

Part Three: Cornstarch Crepes

One thing I often forget to write about is my time doing day-to-day things. These grand trips are definitely noteworthy, but they don’t comprise all of my time here. I go to class, I spend time with friends, and I try to learn new things about Granada. On a typical day I go to class, then go to my friends Samantha and Nicola’s apartment where we go up to the roof and lay out in the sun. I am already getting a good base tan and it’s not even April! I then go back home for lunch where I chat with Caroline and Nati and her daughter Elena if she’s around. Sometimes I have class right after lunch, which I hate, because that’s siesta time! Time to nap and lie around and let your food digest. I do always have a class in the morning and in the afternoon though, and then after my last class of the day I work out. Depending on the day I either go on a run along the river, which has a nice path that follows it out of the city where many people are running or riding their bikes, or I go to the gym. I actually joined a gym, called Gymnasio TNT, and I like to go to the Spinning class and the Body Pum (Body Pump in the US) class. All of them are taught in Spanish of course, and for some reason the Body Pum instructor always picks on me. She’s short, powerful, and definitely not Spanish. I don’t know where she is from, but she has blonde hair and blue eyes and although small I would not want to run into her in a dark alley. Classes are just like in the US, only instead of having a microphone to hear her over the music, she just yells or whistles. It’s only natural for me to be intimidated when she yells and points at me. I think I just stick out because I’m not only the tallest person in the class, but the whitest. Either way, my legs haven’t been this strong since I don’t know when.
I of course then have dinner later in the night, and depending on the night I either stay in do homework or I go out with friends to play volleyball, get ice cream, or any other fun local cultural things that are going on. Lately it’s been getting busier and busier and the weather is nice, so I always have something to do.  I'm also currently reading a Paolo Coehlo book, Once Minutos, which I really like. He is the author of The Alchemist,  and I have read him before but of course it was an English translation. He is from South America, so I am reading in his native tongue! I like that I can actually read a book and enjoy it, and also I can still pick up on his specific writing voice that I came to know in his translated book.

I’ve also discovered that while in the States I am allergy free, I have severe allergies here. All of the flowers and trees are budding and I have been in allergy hell with sore throat, sneezy runny nose, and itchy red eyes. I never understood how Sean could have such awful allergies in our family and the most anyone else has is hay fever. Well, while I don’t compare to Sean’s 80 something allergies, I have never been so miserable with allergies until now. Apparently I’m allergic to the flowers on the olive trees. Such a bizarre thing, but I will be happy when spring moves into summer.

To mark the first day of spring, Granada had a massive festival that consisted of a botellon. Botellon is the word for drinking in the streets. Drinking in the streets is illegal, but the town designated an area in which it is legal. This area is the parking lot of Hipercor, the Spanish Wal-Mart. People from all over Andalucia came to Granada for this massive botellon that started at 3 pm. Spaniards will make any excuse to party, but you know they mean business when they start a fiesta during siesta! I went with a few other girls, and it was probably one of the craziest things I have ever seen. I have never seen so many people in one place for the sole purpose of drinking. No bands, no DJ, no real source of entertainment at all except for the alcohol in their hands and the thousands of other people standing around them. I wish I had a picture to show the never-ending sea of heads. We ended up leaving by 8:30 pm and that was more than efficient. Spaniards party like there is no tomorrow. Well, actually, by the time they start the party it IS tomorrow. Nightlife in Spain doesn’t start until after midnight. Many bars and clubs don’t even open until midnight. While I am not strong enough to stay out until 7am, I have left the discotecas at 4am only to pass the people who have just arrived. This actually deters me from going out many nights because I get too tired before people even start going out.

There have been a few changes around the house this month. Frenchy went back to France and I now have my own room. I moved into the room she was using, and Caroline is in the room we used to share. It’s really cute and has wall shelves and a tiny table and chair and a hat rack. It’s so cozy!

Before Mari left she showed me how to make crepes, French style! Of course I make gluten-free crepes and can’t do them exactly as she does because she normally uses beer in hers, but they work out just fine. For some reason corn flour is the only gluten-free alternative you can find here, but with the way she showed me how to make them it didn’t matter and they taste just like normal crepes! I was so happy she showed me how and I love having nutella, banana and strawberry crepes. One time I went to the store to find flour and I couldn’t find any different kinds other than wheat. And then I finally saw a box that said, “Harina Fina de Maiz.” Great, not only was it corn but it was fine flour, since the direct translation of the box was fine corn flour. I went home happy to start the crepe making and decided I was going to make a really big batch with six eggs. The first step of making the crepes is mixing the eggs and the flour until you get a really thick consistency. So here I am, pouring in this white powder, and sure enough it starts to get harder and harder to stir. But then when I stopped stirring the mixture looked thin again. That was when I got suspicious, so I started to try and stir really fast, but the mixture was too thick to do it, and then immediately looked liquid again once I stopped. I realized what was going on, and I punched the mixture and it didn’t even get any on my hand; it was like I hit plastic. My stomach sank as I realized I had used an entire box of cornstarch to make crepes and just wasted six eggs. I did a quick check online to make sure, but it was sadly true. With mixed feelings about wasting food but not wanting to eat straight starch, I threw out the mixture and had to buy new ingredients to start over again. Although Caroline says she would’ve made the same mistake, I felt like such a complete idiot.

The language mistakes never end though when you’re an amateur. Just last night I went out for drinks and tapas with Nicola, Sam and some Spanish friends, and I made a language mistake that made me the butt of all the jokes from the waiting staff. I asked for a glass of red wine and a cup of tap water, or “agua de grifo.” You have to specify tap water, because otherwise they give you a bottle and you have to pay. So I asked the waiter, “Puedo tener vino tinto y un vaso de agua grifa.”
“Cuidado!” he said, “Agua de grifo, no grifa. Grifa es chocolate.”
“Oh!” I said, because in Spain chocolate is street slang for marijuana. “No estamos en Amsterdam, si,” I said.
The rest of the night the waiting staff referred to me as marijuana girl and they occasionally stopped by just for the sake of teasing me.

But in good news, my Spanish is much better! As long as people are patient with me and help me with a few words here and there, I can have some nice conversations with people. I made friends with a Spanish professor at a different school in Granada, and he is great to practice talking with. We can talk about many different things and he can help me with words if I’m really stuck. When I find people I can actually have things to talk about with it is so nice to practice and realize how far I’ve come. I know that I’m not nearly as good as I would like, but there is a marked difference from when I first got here. Now I just have to prove that on my midterms this week…

My parents are flying into Madrid this Thursday and then taking a bus to Granada this Friday, and I am really excited to have them here! It will be fun to show them around and also for them to spend time in Europe. We are going to go to Palm Sunday at the Cathedral, go hiking, go to Arab Baths (which are amazing!), go to the beach, possibly go to Toledo, and just celebrate Semana Santa with the rest of Granada. It’s going to be a lot of fun and I hope jet lag doesn’t affect them too much. Kind of crazy to think they’re going to have to rely on me to get around! We’ll make sure to take lots of pictures and let everyone know how it goes. And I will try and write more blogs so I don’t have to do a trifecta of writing in one day! Uf!

Adios!



Me (and Jake in the background) during a bike tour in Sevilla. I wish I could ride a bike in Granada!

Part Two: Christopher Columbus's Dust

Like my group trip to Rome, my program recently took us to Sevilla, the capital of Andalucia. Within our program, Sevilla was another option for where to study abroad in Spain. While some people felt they had wished they had chosen Sevilla over Granada upon visiting, I was happy with the choice I made. Sevilla was very pretty and full of history and art, but it was also very large and sweltering hot. The weekend we were there temperatures reached highs of 80 degrees F. Joder! That’s hot.

On the way to Sevilla, we stopped in a national park called Torcal. Torcal is by far one of the most amazing geological areas of nature I have ever seen. It is on top of a mountain range, but it was once completely underwater. Because of this, all of the rocks are formed like riverbeds, and you can see the gradation and markings from where water rushed by and ate away at the rocks. It was absolutely amazing and beautiful. It was so nice to be in the fresh mountain air and go hiking and see the incredible rock formations. It was a pleasant surprise for all of us, and after looking down into a large valley that sat below the mountains someone said, “Good work, God.”

Once in Sevilla, I realized if the heat there would soon reach Granada, I had not packed enough summer clothes. Our first full day there while wearing shorts and a tank top, I felt overheated and searched for shade often. During the summer months, Sevilla can reach temperatures of 120 degrees F. Probably what made this worse was the fact that it is such a large city, concrete and rock absorb the heat and keep it hot into the night. Also, Sevilla has a humid heat since it is situated along a river. However the city also holds many large and lush gardens, which create nice reprieves from the heat.

One of the sites we went to visit was the city’s Cathedral, which holds the Guinness World Record for the most square footage for a church. It is a beautiful gothic Cathedral, but it also has incorporated old parts of a mosque that was once there before the Inquisition. The Cathedral was indeed massive, and the inside reminded me of the Westminster Abbey in London. The Cathedral is also the final resting place for Christopher Columbus. When Ol’ Chris died, he was buried in Sevilla at a monastery. Due to celebrations and some other reason I forget, he was then moved to what is now Dominican Republic. However, Dominican Republic gained freedom from Spain, so he was moved to Cuba. And as we all know, Cuba is no longer a part of Spain either, so he was sent back to Sevilla and put in a special tomb in the Cathedral that was originally designed as a gift for the Dominican Republic. However, a few years ago, DR started up some trouble and said that Seville had the wrong body—they still had Columbus. So, in 2003, they did DNA testing of the small remains they had left of Columbus, which is now a small pile of dust, and tested it along with the remains of his illegitimate child, who also has a tomb in the Cathedral. The consensus was then in, Columbus was indeed in Sevilla. So, Columbus did not just sail the ocean blue in 1492, but also well into his death. Phew!

I have to say, it never ceases to amaze me how famous Christopher Columbus is. In the States, Columbus is almost considered infamous. He was a man who landed on someone else’s backyard and claimed it as something he “discovered.” We all know what happened from then on; mass genocide, spread of disease, and wars over land. The land we now call the Americas. While I was studying in Costa Rica, every museum was full of depictions of those first meetings between the indigenous and conquistadors. The currency in Costa Rica is the “colon,” as in “Cristobel Colon” his real name. Many history lessons focused on the Spaniards invasion and control of the area, and it was interesting to live where life wasn’t previously under British control, but Spanish.
In Spain, there are memorials for him everywhere. He is practically the patron saint of Spain. In Sevilla every year on October 12th, Christopher Columbus Day, they have massive parties celebrating him. He is so ingrained in the culture, he is as famous as Isabel and Ferdinand, the former Queen and King of the Inquisition Era. He was the frontrunner in a time when Spain was powerful, and because of that they hold on to the glory he gained in their name.

Another famous site we visited was the Alcazar. The Alcazar was once a Moorish fort, but was then turned into a royal palace after the Inquisition. This place is very much like the Alhambra in Granada (I know, I still haven’t told you about it!) but it is still in use by the Royal family. It has gardens that span seven acres, and it was very lush and beautiful. There were some very interesting facts about history in general that came directly from this palace. One was the Media Naranja, or half orange. The Media Naranja was the top of a ceiling in a section of the palace that looks like half an orange, and is the spot in which two famous people of Spanish history (I have forgotten at the moment who) were married. Because of this, people now call their spouses their “media naranja,” or, their “better half.”

Also, there is a crest within the building that depicts two pillars and a river curving through them. The two pillars represented two powers, which I believe were Spain and Morocco, and the river being the Straight of Gibraltar. Don’t quote me on that one though, because I can’t remember exactly! I need to take a tape recorder on my tours! However, this image of the two towers and river were used often for symbols involving Spain. If you were to roughly sketch the two pillars and river, you would get two lines and a squiggly mark. $ This ended up being the origin of the dollar sign. That just blew me away! Who thinks about the origin of the dollar sign? Also, on many crests of Spain and within the palace there are the words “Plus Ultra”, which is Latin for, “You may go beyond this point.” All of these crests used to say, “No Plus Ultra,” because this was during a time when they thought the world was flat. They thought if you went beyond a certain point you would fall off the edge of the earth. After Columbus came to the Americas and it became obvious the world was not flat, all of the No’s were scratched off.

As you can see, I take a lot from my tours when I go to these places. I am very interested in the history of the area, especially since Spain was a catalyst in forming the country I am from. Our history is intertwined with theirs, and it is impossible to escape this fact. Living in Spain makes me feel more connected to not only the history of my country, but world history. Seeing and experiencing these things suddenly makes those hours as a child in social studies come to life, and makes me wish everyone could see and hear these things instead of just reading them from a textbook. But I also realize not everyone is as interested as me, so I’m glad to know the children in our country at least have text books to learn from.

Part One: Salam Alaikum

It’s been a long time, I know. Lets just say, no news is good news, and in this case also means that I’ve been living every moment to the fullest. Where did March go? I can’t believe it’s almost the end of the month. Starting tomorow I have midterms, and then my parents come to visit for Semana Santa by the end of the week. I don’t even want to think of the weeks to follow after they leave, because I know the end of my time here is coming soon. So much has happened in the last few weeks, it’s hard to know where to start. Frenchy went back to France, Caroline and I went to Morocco, our group went to Sevilla, and a whole load of other things. I’ve discovered new things about Spain and myself; every day is another chance to learn and do something new.

I don’t know how I’m going to be able to describe Morocco in such a short amount of space. I’m not sure I even grasped enough in my short amount of time there. Morocco is primarily Muslim, and I haven’t spent time in a culture that is mostly Arabic before. Almost everyone wore the typical dress of Muslim culture, with women wearing head coverings, and both men and women wearing an abaya, the long robe type clothing. Caroline and I went with a Study Travel group that takes students down, shows them around, and makes sure they don’t get in too much trouble; the usual. Our tour guides were very informative and fun to be around. We took a ferry over the Straight of Gibraltar and went to Tetuan, Tanger and Chef-Chaouén. Morocco was very different and beautiful, and I would have loved to explore more than I did. Sadly though, many of my memories from the trip are those of frustration and annoyance with other people that came on the trip. There were 54 of us in a group, and lets just say at least 2/3 of which were not prepared to actually be in Morocco.

When someone wears high-heals and a low cut shirt on their first day in Morocco, you gotta wonder if they accidentally got on the wrong boat. The majority of the group was girls, and many of them took little to no regard of the fact we were going into a country with different cultural standards and beliefs than what we are used to. Anything from complaining about bathrooms, gasping in disgust at markets, to making fun of language differences and remarks about terrorists could be heard. And although there were a lot of Americans in our group, there were a fair amount of people from other countries as well, such as Iceland, Germany, Holland, and the UK. Overall, I was embarrassed to be with this massive group of people who reacted to their trip to Morocco as if they were at a circus, taking pictures every second to keep their memory of the trip and prove they had been somewhere “adventurous” without actually doing anything and alienating the people of the towns.
Of course, I’m not saying that I wasn’t a tourist. It is impossible to go to a completely different culture and country and not stick out and not be a tourist of some sort. I took pictures, my stare lingered on things I wasn’t used to, but I’d like to think I did my best to go into the situation with an open mind.

The trip wasn’t a failure by any means, as our guides were very helpful and showed and taught us things I would not have been able to do on my own. Also, we stayed at a very nice place and ate good food that was guaranteed to have the water boiled beforehand, since those of us who aren’t from there could not stomach the water. Our guides taught us how to say hello, thank you , and no in Arabic. For hello the first person says, “Salam Alaikum,” (shuh-laum wuh-lake-um) and the second person says, “Alaikum Salam.” This isn’t just hello, but a sign of peace and respect to the other person, said while touching your heart. Thank you is “chokran” and no is “la”. But you can’t say “lala” because that means Grandmother. Although within our guided trip we used these phrases to say hello and thank you, no one in the markets for bargaining or in the streets spoke to us in Arabic. Mostly all of them knew Spanish, as well as French and I’m pretty sure many other languages. One man approached me in a market and said, “Bonjour, Madam!” tipped his hat and kept on going.

We learned quickly that in Morocco the national sport is bartering. We were told to never accept a first price anywhere we went, and that people would hound us to buy their things. This was definitely true. Men would come up to you with jewelry, grab your wrist, put a bracelet on it and ask for your money. They didn’t even ask for Durhams, the currency of Morocco, they wanted our Euros, too. You could say no all you wanted and they wouldn’t listen, but the second you said, “La!” it was like the magic word had just been spoken, and they grudgingly walked away.

Although we visited three towns everyone’s favorite was the last we visited, Chef-Chaouén. Chef-Chaouén is a mountain village that is easily recognized by the colors of its buildings; white and blue. These colors represent peace and devotion to God, and I was pretty sure I heard also they were the colors of Israel. I could be wrong on that one though, because our tour was completely in Spanish with Arabic accent. Life in this town seemed so pure and simple, as everyone washed their clothes in the river coming straight from the mountains, everyone brought their bread to be baked at the bakery (bakeries don’t make their own bread, they bake your bread for you) and everyone bathed in the bathhouse which has specific days and times for different ages/genders.

While I was there I got henna on my hand, rode a camel, bought a woven blanket, bartered with a 12 year old for some leather sandals, and saw where the Mediterranean and Atlantic meet. This last part was especially cool, since while in South Africa this last summer I got to see where the Atlantic and the Indian Ocean meet! It really made me realize how much I've seen of this world already, and how much more I want to see.

Morocco is a place I would love to return to and learn more about it. It was so different to be woken up at 6am by the prayer call that announced to everyone the time to turn to Mecca and pray, to see women covered from head to toe but look so beautiful, and to see people function primarily as a community and use nature in their favor in everyway possible. And although I would love to return again, I don't know when this will happen. I have visited eight countries since receiving my passport. I still have a lot more to go!

Lluvia

Rain, rain, go away,

Come again another day.

Little Johnny wants to play;


Rain, rain, go to Spain,


Never show your face again!

-Unknown, England 1533-1603

The rain has returned and no one is happy about it. In the States when you visit cities like Portland and Seattle they tell you they know tourists when they see umbrellas. Now is the time in Granada when no one is an obvious tourist, because everyone is hidden under umbrellas, some so big they can fit three people under it easily. I don’t understand how a city that hardly knows rain is now getting more than they’ve seen in years. It doesn’t make sense to me.

The last two weeks have felt like a fuzzy dream because that’s what I was spending the majority of my time doing. I have slept more in the last two weeks than I have in a long time. On our last day in Rome, no, our last 45 minutes, Caroline and I ate gluten on accident. Gluten screws up my stomach/body/mind for a while, so I was thrown for a loop from that. We only had a three-day school week since we missed Monday and we never have class on Fridays. Then this weekend I stayed home while Caroline went to Ireland and others went roaming around Spain. That is when the rain really began, and that is when I got sick.

Not that my weekend just consisted of sleeping and being sick, but it did mostly. I spent a lot of time with Mari (Frenchy) since neither of us wanted to go outside. I was able to practice a lot of Spanish since this was our only form of communication. On Saturday we finally chose to get out in the afternoon because it was the last day of rebajas. Rebajas is a nationwide sale that goes on for months. Almost every store has rebajas and prices are cut up to 60%. So we left our piso for the first time in awhile and…every store was closed. We walked down deserted streets with metal panels covering doorways and lights turned off. The restaurants and cafes were open with people eating and drinking, but everything else was dark. “Que pasa??” we wondered. “No entiendo…” I said over and over. Finally after we had walked by store after closed store, I had to ask. Three young men walked towards us, and I stopped them.

“Chicos!” I called, and they came close, ears facing me as if what I was about to say would be very interesting. “Perdonme…que paso hoy? Por que todas las tiendas estan cerrado?” I asked.

“Pues, porque es el dia de Andalucia! Hoy es el dia para comer y beber,” they answered. “No sabia??”

“No, no sabia. Pero, no para comprar?” I asked.

“No, solo para beber y comer.”

We all chuckled, I thanked them and they walked on. Apparently, the day was a day all around Andalucia, the providence we live in, to celebrate and eat and drink. Only in Andalucia, though. How was it that we weren’t informed the entire city would be shut down to celebrate? And what was worse, Sundays are also days the city is always shut down. This meant an entire weekend of everything except restaurants being shut down. I couldn’t go to the mercado, I couldn’t try to nab a last second rebajas item. Mari and I didn’t know what to do, so we walked on.

“Los marruecos probablamente estan abierto,” I said to Mari. The Moroccans never shut down their stores.

“Ah, si si! Por supuesto. Dinero es dinero!” she replied.

The part of town where the Moroccans have their shops is one of my favorites. It is further away from my house and can be a little peligroso depending on the time of day you go. But it is a part of town that reminds me why Granada is so different from the rest of Spain. The sights, sounds, and smells pull you away and introduce you to a culture rooted somewhere else.

The area that the Moroccan shops are at have very narrow streets, splitting off into random areas. It can be difficult to navigate through. But once you hear music in the air and chatter, you know you are close. The stores are full of colorfully patterned tapestries portraying large trees and elephants and donkeys. The clothes are loose, relaxed, and seen on every hippy in town. Incense fills the narrow street, and it is impossible to tell from which store it is coming from. The street is very narrow, very compact, with stores so similar you can’t tell if they’re separate or one in the same. Teashops break up the stores, where you can see people sitting on pillows with lights low, sipping tea or smoking hookah. Stands lean against the outside walls of stores with an array of silver jewelry, tea pots, and scented oils. Music is being played by someone at all times, normally a hippy guitarist who lives in the cuevas above, and there are a few people standing around, clapping their hands, laughing and or dancing. Dogs wander the streets unaware they have lost their owners. Everytime I walk down this street I breathe in deep and let my eyes land on every sparkly and colorful cloth and I think, “I want it all!”

Saturday was different though. Everyone and their abuelita were in the narrow street. I held tight to my bag, and even though I saw items I liked I was either swept along with the crowd or chose to not make that moment the moment to look at it. Everyone’s voices bounced between stores, incense could hardly be smelled with the masses of people, and the guitar was just a faint background noise between the children, families, and groups of shoppers bored with the dead town.

Mari and I walked down wasting no time, moving as the crowd allowed us, and moved on. The cold humid air and lightly sprinkling rain, along with the failed rebajas excursion left us tired, so we returned to the apartment empty handed.

The next day was when I got sick. It has been a long time since my body felt as if I had fallen down a hill. In my sleep I dreamt of a boiling hot day in the park, eating watermelon so hot it burnt my tongue, and hot water flowing out of the drinking fountains. I woke up sweating, realizing I had a fever.

When I informed Nati, she brought me six oranges. She also recommended I drink hot milk before I go to bed. I appreciate her concern for me, but I am glad she isn’t staying with me to make sure I follow through with these home remedies. I did however go to my program office to have someone take me to the doctor.

My trip to the doctor’s office reminded me just slightly of my trip to the doctors in Costa Rica. In Costa Rican it was just a lone doctor in an office with a desk and an examining table with equipment to the side. The place I went in Granada was a clinic with each individual doctor having their own office equipped the same way. I sat at the other side of a desk with Maria, an employee from my program. The doctor was a woman and she said, “Digame,” so I told how I felt. She escorted me to the back of the office where I sat on the examining table, she looked in my throat (tentatively, as if she were disgusted) and then walked back to her desk.

“Umm….am I done?” I asked Maria.

“Yeah. She said your throat is swollen.”

“Yeah, I caught that…” I said, and walked back to the chair.

She then wrote me a prescription for amoxicillin, and told me to pick up ibuprofen (which is much stronger here) and aspirin. She didn’t weigh me, take my temperature, my blood pressure, ask me about any other drugs I was taking…just if I had any allergies, and that was that. I have insurance through my program, but I have to pay upfront and then make a claim afterwards. With medicine and the doctor’s bill I paid a total of 52€. Not bad, not bad at all.

So, I’m feeling a lot better now, minus the rain. Everyone looks ragged with hair affected by the humidity or frazzled from hats pulled down tight. In fact, I haven’t taken my hat off at all. My friend Nicola made a hat for me and gave it to me Friday, and I haven’t taken it off yet. Mari makes fun of me for it, but what can I say? It came at the perfect time.

(Okay, you can call me a hippy now)