Bookends

I filled my last few days in Granada wandering around with a trembling lip and a painful lump in my throat. Then, on my walk home on my last night, Simon and Garfunkel's "Bookends" came on my iPod and I lost it, weeping like a crazy lady. If you know the song, you know where I'm coming from. Mr. Simon, you sir, have a way of pulling at my heart strings.

My life in Granada has come to an end and I couldn't be more sad. Time went much too quickly.

I spent my last night walking through the city. There are some cities that just completely come to life at night. Granada is one of them. It has that certain warm, golden glow to it that only big cities have, alive and sparkling and intoxicating. It buzzes, pulsates, with its own life and you can't look away even if you wanted to. You just have to stare everywhere all at once to remember, to take it all in. It is completely bewildering and completely wonderful. I wandered through the city's many crowded, bustling plazas, through Christmas festivals filled with happy little children running at my feet and overwhelmed parents chasing after them. I walked slowly, listening to the street musicians and the Spanish I can now understand. It was the perfect way to end my time there, seeing the city at night, at its best.

I am going to miss Granada and its quiet, overwhelming grandeur. I'll miss the food. I'll miss my host family, with whom my goodbye was painfully bittersweet. There aren't words for the gratitude I feel for their infallible kindness. Mostly, I'll miss the amazing friends I made. We'll never all be there together again.

I knew I'd have to leave, that my time there was short. And I know that one day this will not feel as important - as monumental - as it feels today. In fact, I hope that my time in Granada is far from the coolest thing I do with myself. I hope it is just first in a long list of really impressive things. Nonetheless, it has changed me.

I don't think it has made me into a seasoned world traveler or a wine connoisseur or a fluent Spanish speaker or whatever else, but it has made me feel damn good to be alive. I know now that I continue to exist outside my realm of comfort. I know now that I can do things like this, that I want to do things like this. I am standing here at the very beginning of my life and I am looking forward to whatever is next.

I am home now, and I am so glad that I was there.

Thanks for reading.

A weekend of Gluttony

I believe that post-it notes are a much underrated simple pleasure of life. If I go anywhere remotely cool, and most places are, I buy a good guide book (Thanks Rough Guide to Spain!) and a pack of post-its. Then, I post-it note every inch of that book. A few weeks ago, I was looking at my Spain guide book and I realized that the only post-it note left was Basque country. So, of course, my friends Eddie, Jess and I went.

I wanted to go there for one because I thought I should see the north of Spain and two because it sounded really, really awesome. Basque occupies the northern corner of Spain, right along the French border and it has it's own language and an entirely different culture than the rest of Spain. The origin of the Basque people is unknown - their language is unrelated to any other and they managed to avoid being conquered by the Romans, the Muslims and the Christians. You could say they are hearty. In recent years, they have become more famous for the ETA terrorist group, which is very unfortunately fighting for independence by blowing people up. It is a shame really that Basque has become synonymous with this violence.

Twelve hours and two bus rides later, we arrived in Basque country, which is so forested and green that it looked technicolor to us, coming from the arid landscapes of the south. Bilbao, our first stop, is a gritty place but really charming at the same time. Once there, we went straight to the city's main attraction: the Guggenheim museum, which is just as spectacular in person as it is in photographs. It is said to look like a blossoming flower or a fish jumping out of water - I for one thought it looked like a silver, curvy building. Perhaps I lack that poetic instinct?



The inside was quite the experience as well. A lot of really eccentric modern art. One room was filled with towering seashell-like sculptures that you could walk through. Another section showed independent films, one of which was exhibited in a plywood tunnel and showed an obese woman kneading pizza dough.

We spent our night in Bilbao wandering through the winding streets of the old town, pintxo-hopping. A word about pintxos. They are the Basque version of tapas and also God's gift to the people of Earth. Basque is Spain's self-proclaimed food capital and they are not kidding. Over the course of the two days we were in Basque, I had tempura fried vegetables with curry sauce, various goat cheese concoctions, omelettes, mushroom risotto...dear lord my mouth is watering.

Whew.

Back to Bilbao. While leaving one bar, we came across a crowd singing in the street. We asked an old couple what it was about, and they answered with tears in their eyes, that it was National Basque day. I have to admit I got a little verklempt.

Our next stop was San Sebastian. This city was without doubt my favorite city that I visited in Spain. It is a beautiful and scenic beach town built along a harbor with narrow, old streets and buildings impressive enough to match the landscape. We spent the day here exploring an old castle built on top of a mountain on the harbor. Castle exploring might just be one of my favorite pastimes.



That night we again went out to explore the glorious world of Basque cuisine. San Sebastian has the most bars per square meter in the world and we got a bit more than tipsy just so we could keep eating.


After a few confusing train changes and a brief lunch in the ambiguous border city of Hendaye (I still don't know what country it is in), we arrived in Bordeaux, France. Now, if anyone is planning on ever visiting this city, I should warn you now that the area around the train station is more than a little seedy. Sex shops. Creepy people. Did I mention sex shops? But once we dropped off our bags at our creepy, straight out of The Shining hotel, Bordeaux completely won us over. We treated ourselves to a nice dinner where we all cleaned our plates in happy silence and wandered around the city. Bordeaux is perfect for wandering and just so french. In the morning, we had Cafe Au Lait and Pan Du Chocolat underneath the ancient city gates.



Our last city was Toulouse. It may have been because it was our last day of vacation or because we were there on a Sunday night, but while we there, I felt tired and numb to the city. We did however get to experience a Christmas festival, which filled an impressive plaza with glowing stalls selling all kinds of wonderful things. After the festival, we again wandered through the city and looking back, I can see how charming it is.



It was a weekend of wandering through amazing places and eating amazing food with really great people. You really can't ask for much more in a vacation and I think it was a great trip to end my study abroad on.

I go home tomorrow.

Expect an emotional last blog post from me very soon.

Family Reunion

On the Saturday before Thanksgiving, I went to the airport to pick up my family. I was nervous and excited and I ended up at the airport about two hours early, pacing and fidgeting. It was so great to see their faces again, to be with people who really, really know me and still like me in spite of that.

Showing them around Granada was surreal. This city has been my place for so long that I felt possessive and self-conscious about it. I wanted everything to go perfectly, to be so smooth that they just had to shuffle dumbly from one awe-inspiring place to the next. If I could have arranged for them to be escorted around in golden carriages, being fanned with palm fronds, I absolutely would have. I wanted them to love it here as much as I do. So, with the bar set that high, I did spend a good amount of time feeling inadequate. But let's be honest - who doesn't feel inadequate most of the time anyway? Despite all my nerves, I think they all really liked it here.

On Saturday, my mom, dad and sister Beth arrived. I took them out for an absurdly huge lunch first, and then we visited the royal chapel and the cathedral - a good introduction to the humbling grandeur of this city.



On that Sunday, my brother Andrew and his girlfriend Robin arrived. While my dad went to the airport, Beth, my mom and I wandered over to the Archaeological museum - but not without stopping at a church to buy some chocolate-covered, coconut-filled balls of heaven (literally) from the cloistered nuns. This experience is best described as a candy shop mixed with a confessional mixed with a lazy susan. You don't know whether to kneel down and pour your heart out, or start arranging hors d'oeuvres.

When we were all finally together, I took everyone on a walk through the Albaicin, the ancient Muslim neighborhood, frantically trying to repeat everything I could remember from my Islam class. We finished the day at a cozy wine bar by my school. My favorite people in the world, a heaping pile of honey-drenched, spicy chorizo, creamy goat cheese, and several bottles of great wine - all the good things in life.



Monday was mostly a day of classes for me and a day at the Alhambra for them. Although I think they all really enjoyed it, I also think it may have sucked the energy out of them. The place is huge and I didn't warn them. I made it up to them later though by taking them for hot chocolate and churros - which just might fix all of life's problems if you eat them enough.

Tuesday, the world of my Spanish family collided with the world of my American family, but not in some sort of strange epic battle. Paqui had them over for lunch and, naturally, cooked a ridiculous amount of very impressive food. I served as a translator for the meal, but it really wasn't necessary. You can tell a lot about a person even without language. Well, not me personally, I just eat everyone's soup... but you get the idea. In the end, Paqui and my mom were gushing over each other and Andrew was bonding with Jesus and Antonio over Real Madrid. It went well.

That night we made the drive to Marbella, the Costa Del Sol resort town where we stayed for the rest of the trip. On Wednesday, we drove to Gibraltar for the day. Most people are aware that Gibraltar is an English colony, but what people don't know is that it is also a weird parallel universe version of Britain with palm trees, an over-abundance of native Spanish-speakers and apes. Yes, apes. Unnervingly large apes, to be exact. It is confusing to be in a place where at one point you're eating fish and chips in a pub, and the next, you are on top of a mountain watching your brother scold a monkey for trying to steal his shopping bag. No, monkey, NO.



The next day we went to Ronda. After a terrifying, white-knuckled drive through the foggy mountains, we made it to the town. Ronda is a traditional Andalusian pueblo, with white-washed buildings that would make anything charming, but this one, to top it off, was built on the edges of a cliff. One and a half football fields straight down. Ronda also offers a cave complete with prehistoric paintings, Spain's oldest bull ring and countless opportunities for jokes about Rhonda's massive gorge.





That night was Thanksgiving night. We didn't have turkey or stuffing or anything traditional, but we did make an insane amount of really delicious food and I did feel significantly worse about myself by the time it was done, so I would say we had a pretty normal Thanksgiving. It was wonderful just to be able to be with my family.

The last day trip was to Tangier, Morocco, but my mom and I opted out. Instead, we spent the day wandering around Marbella's old town while my dad, Andrew, Beth and Robin experienced Morocco and the carpet-selling schemes of its guided tours. After that, we had one more day in Granada and then they were off to the real world.


It was amazing to have my family here and there's really no way to describe that. I have always been the kid in the family who stays close to home. I am loving my own adventure - and to have them be a part of it, even for such a short time, was more than I could ask for.

Barriers, Hurdles, Brick Walls

Language fluency is an interesting thing to ponder. In English, I can hear meaning behind the choice of words that someone uses. I can hear sarcasm, in all its splendor. In Spanish, it is always a struggle to hear more than what is said. I doubt I will ever truly be fluent. I am always concentrating intensely on what people are saying but sometimes the meaning still slips by me. For instance, Cristina came home two nights ago flustered and out of breath. From what I could gather, and it was little, a homeless man outside our building threw his shoe at her and chased her down the street. I am still not quite sure if this is right, but needless to say, I decided to stay in that night.

Or, take last night for example. I come home from school and Jesus tells me there is stew in the fridge for me. Nice. Paqui's lentil stew. It is great and and I am starving. So I proceed to dish myself an embarrassingly huge serving. There was enough in the container for two people, I am thinking, three thin people. When I am done, there is maybe a half bowl left.

So I gorge and I enjoy it thoroughly. That lentil soup is the stuff of gods. As I am happily wiping up the last remaining drops from my bowl with a huge chunk of crusty, delicious, carb-filled french bread, the rest of the family comes home. Paqui opens the fridge and frowns, confused. Where is all the soup, she asks.

Well, shoot.

And now here I am, sitting in silence and shame, as five people split the pathetic portion I left. I sat there wishing I had a hole to die in.

Now, in English this never would have happened. I am sure there was something in Jesus' voice that should have communicated that the stew was for everyone. I am sure he said, " Meg, our family dinner, to be enjoyed by all of us together whilst holding hands, is waiting in the fridge. Please, do help yourself to a reasonably sized portion of it." What I got was: "Stew in fridge for you. Eat."

It is a small thing, I know, and no one ever said a word about it to me. But it is things like that that make me think I have a long way to go with this language. It looks like I should expect to be doing a lot of really inappropriate, uncomfortable things. But, at least I won't be hungry.

Collectivism

I am surprised it took this long.

Today, I finally stepped in dog poo. The streets of Granada, while being extremely charming and mostly very agreeable, are also spotted with the bowel movements of many a canine. The sidewalks must be completely blanketed in a thin film of excrement. Normally on my walks to and from school, I take note of these deliberate, steaming piles and slide around them. Occasionally I see the remnants of someone else's misfortune - a smooshed slid-through pile. The poster child of a really bad day.

Well, today it was me. But this wasn't just any old pile. This dog got into something. Chili cheese dog? Indian food? Laxatives? God and dog only know.

Walking home with the festering stench of feces sticking to me was the kicker. I have become disenchanted with this place. I have now fully realized and acknowledged that there are things that I do not like about Granada. I do not like that dinner is always after ten - at which I promptly emerge from my room, pale and shaking with hunger. I don't like that the people here lack a certain spatial awareness that does not appeal to my Midwestern, German sentiments. I think Paella, with all its shells and bones, is more difficult than it is delicious.

I don't want to use this to complain, although that is exactly what I am doing. It is just that no one includes this part in the obligatory, and mostly cliche study abroad blog. Whatever anyone tells you, wherever they studied is not the perfect place. It is not a lush, magical valley where fairies dance above your head and the rivers run with beer or chocolate or both. There are problems everywhere and there will always be something you don't like.

I have moved past complete and idiotic delight to an understanding that Granada is not perfect. It is a city like any other. This realization is very similar to that first time you hear a boyfriend fart. Ah, they are human. So that is what I mean to say: Granada is... human.

But today, after grumpily wiping off my shoe, I decided in an unexpected surge of optimism not to linger on the bad but to focus on the good. This doesn't often happen to me, so enjoy this rare moment of poignancy.

There are a lot of things that I like about Granada, and I could spend hours (well, minutes) listing them here. There is one particular thing, however, that stands out for me and I am not even sure what to call it. At first I couldn't put my finger on exactly what it was, but the small things began to add up.

Once, I got caught in a rainstorm on my way home - a rare event in Granada. All of us who had the misfortune of being on the street gazed up at the sky, dazed and confused, and collectively shuffled under an awning to wait for it to let up. No one had an ipod in or a cell phone to their ear. Instead, we talked to each other. Just a collection of people meeting briefly to discuss the weather. It struck me as strange and wonderful and I spent the rest of my walk home feeling as if I had witnessed a rare moment in the history of humanity.

Often when I ride the bus, the person sitting beside me will strike up a conversation with me. One older man dedicated the ride to telling me about his time in France and ended it by giving me advice on my own travels. Enjoy yourself while you are here because you'll never get to do it again. It's not like I haven't heard that before, but it felt much more fateful and significant coming from a complete stranger.

There is a bar by my apartment that is diligent about showing soccer games. Whenever a game is on, the bar fills and tables spill out onto the street. When the tables fill, people stand - a crowd huddled in the street, flooded with light from the bar. The amount of people there always surprises me. Watching the game alone is not a possibility or even a fleeting thought. You watch together.

The only word that comes to mind is collectivism, although even that is not quite right. Whatever it is, it is something I will miss when I leave. I am not trying to say that this is not the case at home. But it seems to me that in the U.S., where individualism reigns proudly, it is easier to fall behind.

I am fortunate at home to have all the people that I have and, of course, it is true you can find yourself alone anywhere. But here falling through the cracks appears to be more difficult. People are more inclined to catch you. They always say hello to each other. Children aren't rushed out into the world at eighteen. Neighbors know each other by more than name. There will always be someone around. I like that.

A Weekend in Portugal

After seeing several shows on the Travel Channel (one of which involved Anthony Bourdain, who I would follow anywhere), I knew that I would love Portugal. It just looked so relaxed, so scenic, so cool. You could practically feel the sea salt dance across your lips through the television, taste the freshly fried fish. I made a point to go. It is after all, Spain's little neighbor and I'll never be this close again. And so I went.

Before arriving there, however, we spent an excruciatingly long night in the Madrid airport. This is something I would never recommend. Icy, hard floors and fluorescent lighting don't exactly lull you into a deep, slack-jawed slumber, or really any sort of sleep. My friends Frank, Emily and I passed the time discussing a wide variety of topics. What would you have for your last dinner on Earth? Why, I would have Cincinnati Chili, thanks for asking.

We arrived in Lisbon after this sleepless night to meet the others: Emily, Andrea, Eddie, and Jess. From here, we decided to first see Belem, where there seemed to us to be a notable concentration of a lot of really old, important stuff. We visited the Torre de Belem, an imposing 16th century fortress and prison, built to commemorate Vasco da Gama's historical voyage to India in 1497. We then saw the Mosteiro Dos Jeronimos, where Gama is buried in a disappointingly modest tomb. This monastery is also where Gama spent the night praying before he set sail for India. Sounds like me before a plane ride.

After a brief stint in the Age of Discovery, Emily, Jess and I spent the rest of the day exploring the city. It was then that I decided that Lisbon and I would get along nicely. The city retains an old-world feel, cobble stoned streets hugging steep hills, cramped along the banks of an impressive river. Every street looked like a scene from a postcard: impossibly bright buildings, mosaics walls, and red shingled roofs. The atmosphere in Lisbon was calm and relaxed, as if no one had anything better to do but amble. And really, nothing beats ambling.

The next day, we took a day trip to Sintra, a small town forty-five minutes outside of Lisbon. Sintra was small and charming, with a foreboding castle looming above the town. It is also the home of a particular Almond pastry that won my heart over with its gooey perfection.

We spent most of the day at La Quinta Da Regaleira, not to be confused with La Quinta Inn of budget hotel fame. This Quinta is a palace once owned by a millionaire who really knew how to spend his money. The estate grounds are filled with lush gardens and ponds with stepping stones and castle towers to climb. There were interconnecting, labyrinthine caves leading to the bottoms of wells. It was everything you could ever hope for in a palace. My guidebook said the owner was "eccentric," but I think the man was a genius.

After we returned to Lisbon, we decided to eat the three-course, three-drink meal provided by our hostel, all for a very reasonable eight euro. The meal was, strangely, a traditional Uzbekistan feast and, even stranger, really good. We went out that night in the Barrio Alto, a hilly neighborhood that was buzzing with throngs of people cramped into tiny, dimly lit and casually trendy bars.

The next day, it was back to Granada, but now with a new found respect for Portugal. I had heard it was cool. I had seen the travel channels shows, but now I really understood. Portugal is awesome. If you can find the time and the means, this is not a place to miss.

In lieu of my camera, I have included below some ridiculously scenic pictures of Lisbon, courtesy of Google images. You can pretend I took them if you'd like.

Matt and Meg do Europe.

My boyfriend Matt came for fall break. Mainly, I believe, so he could earn a place on this spectacular and groundbreaking blog of mine.

Meet Matt:



He arrived in Madrid early on the morning of the 17th, a Saturday, and we both left Munich on Sunday, the 25th. In between, we visited Madrid, Granada, Barcelona, Fussen and Munich. Adventures ensued, amongst other things.

Because I refused to completely fork over artistic control of this post, you are going to get an account from both of our perspectives. I guess I've become a bit of a diva with this blog.

So here goes.

Arrival

Meg: This topic is really just so that Matt can write about how excited he was to visit the grand country of Spain. I, on the other hand, have lived here for months and am a well-seasoned traveler. Nothing excites me anymore.

Matt: Spain is a wonderful far away land where fairies dance in the streets and unicorns fly through the air. That was the preview I got from Meg...it was definitely not true. Spain was however a great place with some really nice weather and (generally) warm inviting people. I liked it! I was also surprised and impressed with myself because I remember enough Spanish to order food and understand when people on the street were making fun of me.

Madrid

Meg: This could absolutely be in retrospect (more on this later), but I found Madrid to be relatively unimpressive. I say relatively because I have set the bar for European cities absurdly high. For example, did Madrid beat Gary, Indiana? Yes I do believe it did. However, to me, the city was big and crowded and drab. It lacked personality.

The closest thing we found to a quirk was El Rastro, an impressive and enormous Sunday flea market. Vendors flooded the streets selling everything from cheap knock-off soccer jerseys to zebra hides. It was weird, disorienting, chaotic, and great. It was Madrid's gritty underbelly. A city's market is where you'll find its heart.

Matt: Madrid is a loud, noisy, European city. It was founded in the 9th century, which is quite a long time ago, but it didn't really have much historical significance until Fernando and Isabel united Spain in the late 15th century. This meant a couple things, 1) For a city its age, Madrid is actually lacking quite a bit in history. It was a backwards out-of-the-way city in the middle of "Spain" for hundreds of years. 2) It was also the biggest city we visited and consequently didn't seem to have as much charm as some of the other places. Oh well, the people there spoke Spanish without an accent so it was fairly easy to understand them.

Real Madrid



Meg: I tell people that I grew up playing soccer. When I say this, I actually mean that I was the slightly chubby kid who chose to play goalie so that they could sit between the posts, lazily picking at the grass. Occasionally I would find four leaf clovers.

I never played soccer the way they play it in Spain. The speed and fluidity of the game was outstanding. The ball curves seamlessly from one player to the next as if everyone was hovering just above the grass...which in reality would probably be a little unnerving. The game, despite the headers, which just look painful and unnecessary, is really very graceful. But it wasn't just the players that struck me. The fans too were different. I expected a drunken party, utter chaos, but what we got instead was silent, intense concentration. I guess if anyone takes soccer seriously, it's the Spanish.


Matt: One of the things that I was most looking forward to on this trip was the opportunity to go see some Spanish futbol. I like soccer and I also wanted to see how Europeans treat big time sports. It's one of those things that I never really thought about much, but in the U.S., there are a lot of big sports all the time and its really easy to get into something. If you like football, sweet! If you don't, you can choose to enjoy basketball, hockey, baseball, volleyball, whatever. However in most other countries, this discussion starts and ends with soccer. Soccer = sports, soccer = life.

Needless to say I was expecting to see a lot of really charged up people. When Meg informed me that the tickets she was able to get were way up in the top of the stadium, I was considering buying a bulletproof vest and bringing a knife. And I sure as hell was going to make sure to wear white (Meg made this easy by getting me a sweet Real Madrid jersey for my birthday, thanks Meg!). I had seen some crazy things on YouTube and spent a portion of my fall reading about soccer disasters on Wikipedia.

The game was nothing like any of this. It was very different from an afternoon at Camp Randall (which was what I was expecting) and it was wonderful. All 80,000 people that packed Estadio Santiago Bernabeu were there for one reason, to watch the game. While the ball was in play, 80,000 pairs of eyes followed it. No one talked, no one moved, everyone watched with a quiet intensity that I envied. It was awesome.

Goodbye Things

Meg: Enough about soccer and grace, Monday morning was when I officially decided that Madrid is not for me. We were at the Madrid bus station on our way to Granada and, long story short, I got all my stuff stolen. Okay, not everything - just my purse, which happened to hold virtually everything valuable I had with me. Camera, passport, ipod, wallet, credit cards, glasses, all-bran granola bars: gone. Yes, I know that they are just things. They are all replaceable and I have already mourned their sudden and unexpected deaths.

Mostly, I am sad for all the stamps in my passport. They were tiny tokens from each far away place, miniature greetings and farewells smeared in ink across the pages. Now it is like I've never been to those places. Now I have no proof! I guess I will just have to retrace the steps of my passport. Sigh. What a pain that will be.

Matt: This was definitely the low point of the trip. Some assholes decided that the way they were going to "make" a living was to take other people's stuff. I hope Meg's camera exploded when they turned it on. On a side note, with areas that are frequented by thieves (nearly everyone we talked to after this said this particular bus station was notorious for thievery), why the hell don't you put some sort of security peeps around? It would take like two people and everyone would get on their buses and go and have a nice time on the rest of their trips. Hey, at least we got to see what the inside of a U.S. Embassy looks like!

Granada



Meg: The familiarity of Granada was a welcome change after spending the whole day in the U.S. Embassy in Madrid. The embassy turned out to be one of the more depressing places I've been - defeated Americans and hopeful Spaniards waiting together in anticipatory silence. It was a glorified DMV, finished off with a generous helping of Ellis-Island-style desperation.

I tried my best to show Matt a slice of my life here, but mainly I rambled and felt self-conscious, worrying that the place I've been fanatically raving about for two months was not as great as I've thought. But watching Matt as we walked around town and the Alhambra, well, I think he liked it. I suppose I'll have to read his part of the blog to be sure.

Matt: This place was cool. I'm glad that Meg was there to show me around because the small windy streets would have been impossible for me to navigate. Granada was so much different from Madrid and is much more endearing. There was a multitude of fun looking shops, restaurants, and bars on every street and I wanted to visit them all. Our hostel was really nice and had a sweet name (Funky Backpackers). All in all, a great place and it only got better when we went to the Alhambra. That place is cool. Check out pictures and go, it is a really really cool place.

Ryan Air

Meg: Ryan Air, in addition to being an airline, is hilarious. The gate was announced about five minutes before departure and we all subsequently frenzied without any hint of order out the door and to the plane. It looked more like we were all drunkenly waiting for brats at a Badger game, rather than doing something fairly serious. Although, I suppose I should acknowledge that for some people boarding a plane isn't serious at all. I, however, prefer to board planes in a death march, preparing for an imminent and fiery end to my existence. The flight itself was unnervingly casual, but refreshing as well. Why not relax while careening 40,000 feet over the planet? Halfway through, the pilot came on the air to announce that the weather in Barcelona was...the same. Thanks for the laughs, Ryan Air.

Matt: This was probably the most ridiculous experience we had on the trip. Ryan Air announces boarding for their flights something like this, "The flight is leaving in 20 minutes, everybody get on the damn plane." And then there is a stampede of people trying to get the most desirable seats on the plane (don't know exactly where those are). Seriously, the people getting on these flights would bowl over their own grandmother if it meant they would get an aisle seat near one of the exit doors. The weather report was awesome, as was the scene that unfolded after the plane landed. When a Ryan air flight lands on time, they play this little song over the speakers in the cabin and everybody (or at least everybody who has been on one of these flights before), as if on cue, bursts out into a rousing round of applause. I sat there with my mouth agape for like 20 seconds and then burst out laughing because this was one of the funniest things I've ever been apart of.

Barcelona





Meg: If Madrid is one thing, Barcelona seems to be its complete opposite. Barcelona is young, flirty and full of life. There is an palpable exuberance in the air. After a tour of the FC Barcelona stadium, which ended up being surprisingly moving, we spent the day wandering, which is exactly what you should do in this city. We rambled down Las Ramblas (couldn't resist), passing what seemed to be the whole of humanity, side by side. Street vendors, human statues, a sea of oddities and eccentricities. It was enough to make someone want to buy a can of gold spray paint and stand very still on a street corner...

Matt: Barcelona was cool! Fun city to walk around in! Nice place to be! We went to a nice dinner (complete with paella served out of a pan that had to have been half the size of our table) and generally enjoyed ourselves. I'd like to go back sometime.

Fussen





Meg: Ah, the motherland. I'd like to begin by saying that my first meal in Germany was something listed on the menu as "a pair of wieners and a pretzel." All you Schumachers and Braunschweigs out there, I do believe I made you proud. After this lunch of champions, we visited the castles of mad King Ludwig: the famous Neuschwanstein and the not-so-famous Hohenschwangau (lesser known, I believe, due to its unfortunate name).

Disney's Cinderella's Castle is modeled after Neuschwanstein, which says a thing or two about its extravagance. Ludwig had a taste for unrestrained glitz. The fact that he only lived there a few months before mysteriously showing up dead in a nearby lake gives the place a demented feel - and who doesn't like that in a castle?

Matt: This was my favorite place on the trip. It was a serene town in the Bavarian alps and when we were there the weather was crisp (as it should be in mid-October) and the sun was shining. I also got to have some fun at the expense of Meg (who is terrified of nearly everything)*. When we pulled into the train station and walked to our hostel, it was apparent that we were a little late for our check-in time, no worries, however, as the directions I had said to just call this number from a phone that would be outside the door of the place. So, I did. And the guy I talked to was very nice and said that the room we had reserved was not at the location we were standing at, but on the other side of town. He then offered us a ride there if we wanted. Being that it was a cold night and I was sick of walking around with all my worldly possessions on my back, I took him up on the offer.

Meg was less than enthused at this and preceded to tell me about it for about 10 minutes until the guy showed up in a sketchy white van. At this point she was positive that this guy was going to take us somewhere up into the mountains, chop us up and no one would ever hear from us again. I figured we had enough bad luck already that such a thing couldn't happen. Turns out I was right, the guy couldn't have been nicer (although he did look like a character out of a low-budget horror film) and the room we had reserved was quite nice. Humanity owed us one and everything worked out.

The next day we hiked (errr walked along a nicely paved path) to the fun castles of King Ludwig. They were really cool and even more picturesque than I was expecting. If you're ever in Bavaria, you really should check them out.

* Editor's note: Although I would like to be able to defend myself here, I am, in fact, terrified of nearly everything. I make Woody Allen look like a Valium spokesman. However, the man who picked us up was absolutely in the last Die Hard and may have opted not to kill us because of how angry I looked.


Munich



Meg: To begin the day appropriately, we went straight to the BMW museum, which for all its glamor turned out to be a bit disappointing. Too many airplane engines and motorcycles, not nearly enough cars. I did, however, find my dream car: the 1984 M5. If anyone is feeling particularly generous, I'd gladly accept this as a graduation present.

We also went to see the Glockenspiel perform its daily dance. What a strange snippet of culture this is. Life-size dolls spinning atop a tower, with throngs of tourists below, craning their necks. The show is delightful, if bizarre.

And last but most certainly not least: the Hofbrauhaus. The only way to end the trip. After downing a heaping pile of cheesy Spaetzle for dinner, we made our way to the famed beer hall. This place is ridiculous in the best way possible. Rows upon rows of festive tables filled with rosy cheeked, loud and jolly crowds. Polka music! Giant pretzels! Enormous, delicious beers! If you don't have fun here, there's something wrong with you.

And so ended the trip. A good one, I'd say. One for the scrapbooks.


Matt: Munich was the type of European city that I really enjoy. It has lots of history (BMW was started here! Olympics! Bier!) and is super nice and clean. It was a good place to wander around for a day and another of those places I wish I would've had more time in. Meg has most of the highlights above and I don't want to hijack her blog anymore since I know its the only thing that gives her life meaning these days. All in all, great trip, gotta take the highs with the lows, and so on. Thanks for reading!

** A special thanks to Matt for all the pictures provided for this post. R.I.P. camera

Span Fam 101

It's been far too long since I've written and I was starting to experience serious blog withdrawal: shaking hands, foaming mouth, the works.

I've been back from break for a week now and am impatiently awaiting my boyfriend Matt's portion of our supposed-to-be joint blog post about fall break. However, apparently artistic genius comes to him much slower than it comes to me (What can I say? I'm a natural). So, as much as it pains me to divert from chronological order, the drug that is my blog is calling and I just gotta write, man. More on fall break later.

I have been here about two months now and I think it is about time I write about my Spanish family. First and foremost, they are great. I love them and I am fortunate that they are who I was placed with. Let's go from youngest to oldest.

Pablo.

Pablo is eleven years old. He is a small, wiry kid with a lot of pent up, squirming energy. When he was born, he didn't get enough oxygen to his brain and as a result, his behavior is more akin to that of a five year old. I have no idea how medically accurate this explanation from my host mother is, partially due to my own ignorance in this area and also due to my consistent inability to understand complex ideas in Spanish.

But in any case, it does explain a good deal. While Pablo does have the occasional tantrum, mainly he likes to ask me what time it is in Wisconsin and what my favorite types of foods are. And really, I think that these conversations are severely lacking in everyday adult life. Who doesn't like to discuss the different brands of cereals? I'm particularly fond of Cinnamon Toast Crunch. He is sweet and I enjoy his company.

Antonio.

Antonio is fifteen and when we first spoke, I would have bet my life that he was speaking Italian or Portuguese or maybe some language he made up. He speaks so fast that I'm not even sure his lips move. We have, needless to say, made great strides in our relationship. He is the only one in the family who laughs at me, which I think is totally appropriate. A lot of the time, I have no idea what is going on and I would hope someone was getting some amusement out of it. Antonio seems older than his age, but maybe it's just because he wears some stylin' thick-framed glasses.

Jesus.

Jesus is seventeen and he is gone most of the time. His mom always says that he is at soccer practice but I don't think even Cristiano Ronaldo plays that much (Please note the Spanish soccer player reference). I'm sure the kid is pulling a fast one on her.

Cristina.

Cristina is twenty-three. When I heard there would be someone near my age in the house, I was nervous and excited. I really, shamelessly, wanted her to like me - and I her. As far as I can tell, and we should remember that my Spanish social skills are that of an eight year old, we are getting along really well. The first time we had a real conversation, we spent the better part of it exchanging swear words in our own languages. She is the first Spanish person I've talked to and actually been able to express a good amount about myself. It's nice to be able to show someone here some scraps of my personality, to prove that it does in fact exist beneath the language barrier.

Child five.

Yes, that's right. I do not know her name. I didn't know she existed until a month ago. Here is what I know: Number five does not live here but she comes here to do her laundry. She is the oldest and is getting married in August. I have also met her fiancee and do not know his name either. I have searched the house for clues as to what her name is but haven't been able to find anything. Maria? Monica? Maribel? I know that this is inexcusable and that I should have asked right away. But the fact is, I didn't and too much time has passed and now I will never know. I avoid mentioning her at all costs. So far, this is going well.

Paqui.

Paqui, a nickname for Francisca, is my host mother. She is a few inches shy of five feet and what she lacks for in height, she makes up for in sass. She could talk, and I could listen to her talk, for hours. I once told her I sometimes have difficulty sleeping and her face lit up and she ran from the room without explanation. She came back with a poster that she had taken from the hospital she works at. It was titled "Tips for a Good Night's Sleep." She then went on to explain in great length each of the points. 1. Love yourself. 2. Be content ... Of course, I asked her to make me a copy.

But for all her enthusiasm, I can tell that she is tired. She works all the time to support herself and her five children. It has to be beyond difficult and I don't think that I could do it. Plus, on top of all that, she's got a perpetually hungry American lurking around, speaking much too slowly and adding to the never ending laundry pile. I keep asking her to let me help around the house, but she just scoffs at me, shaking her head and throwing her arms out at the ridiculousness of the idea. Someday, I hope someone cuts her a break. I can't imagine anyone more deserving.

When everyone is here, this house is loud. When it is time to eat, Paqui screams down the hallway for me. Cristina is always on her cell phone. Someone smokes secretly in the bathroom. Antonio and Jesus both sing loudly and off key down the hallway. Right now, someone is blasting Thriller in the other room. It is chaotic but comfortable. I like being here with them and I will miss them when I'm gone.

Stoplight Insanity

Maybe I'm going out on a limb here, but I like to think of myself as a pretty bright girl. I consistently separate my white laundry from my dark. But for the life of me, I cannot figure out the traffic light system in Granada.

It has been a source of frustration for weeks. As far as I can tell, there are three scenarios which can occur at a light.

1. When you reach the pedestrian light, it's red and the cars are indeed rushing past. This scenario is easy. Do not walk into the street...unless of course, you are coming from a previous stoplight and have decided to throw in the towel on this whole life thing.

2. The light is green, the cars are waiting patiently and the pedestrians are crossing in an orderly and calm manner. This rarely happens. If you find yourself in this situation, be sure to capture the moment on film, on paper, via smoke signals, whatever you can get your hands on. It may not happen again.

3. At the light, you seem to have entered some sort of time warp. The cars wait on all sides of the intersection, expelling exhaust like animals snorting, ready to stampede. The pedestrians are waiting as well, with toes balancing on the edge of the curb, because their light is also red. And you stand. The people begin to shift impatiently, transferring their weight back and forth. You eye each other anxiously. And you wait. And then the tension snaps. One desperate soul lets out a frustrated sigh and hurries across the road. The rest follow in relief. This person is usually me. I am not sure what that says about my mental stability. Impatient to the point of recklessness? I haven't gotten hit yet.

It is this scenario that happens most often and has led me to this theory: no one here actually understands the lights. It has been a running joke in the Spanish government for years.

I thought that until tonight. When I was walking home, I got to a stoplight and the traditional wait of the pedestrians began. After a few minutes, Cast Away Tom Hanks arrived and decided to stand much too close to me, smelling exactly how he looked. Splendid. But then, he moved, and it was not like the agitated fidgeting the rest of us were doing. He learned forward in anticipation and took a step into the road just as the pedestrian signal turned green. I'm pretty sure that Charles Manson's long lost brother had predicted the light system. He cracked the code. There is hope for the rest of us after all.

So, what did I learn from this? First and foremost, I learned that traffic lights can be hard. But I also learned that maybe I shouldn't be so quick to judge. Today, dirty Gary Busey outsmarted us all. You just never can tell.

Desensitivity may have set in.

I went to Seville last weekend with some friends. I don't know what it is, but I was relatively unimpressed by the place. I could recognize all of its intensity, its allure, but I couldn't get myself to actually feel anything. This makes me nervous. Am I now immune to the enchanting and intoxicating effects of European cities? Is Granada stealing my heart away from the rest of Andalusia?

We arrived early Friday and went straight out from our hostel to see what the city had to offer. Our hostel had something quite different to offer us: a naked elderly woman in our dorm room. That may also have been a leading factor in why we rushed into the city.

Soon after arriving, I began to feel exhausted by all the commotion, by being a tourist. There is nothing wrong with tourists; they fund some of the greatest places on earth, and I have been one many times here. Every time someone tries to talk to me on the Granada bus and I stutter out a broken response, I am born again a tourist.

But usually I am the tourist who is totally awed by everything, gaping upwards with an idiotic expression on my face. Here, I felt like the tourist who has been trudging along for days and is completely uninterested in everything. The pope himself could be handing out free blessings around the corner and they'd still want above all a cold beer and a big, comfy chair.

So that first day we saw the Alcazar, an ancient Muslim palace, and the Plaza de España, an impressive arena built for the 1929 Fair of the Americas (which was a bit of a bust thanks to the stock market crash).



Saturday, we went to see Italica, an ancient Roman city - and by God I just perked right up. I'm not sure what it is but I just love Roman ruins. Their society is much like ours is, or was arguably until recent years: a well-oiled machine of a civilization. It is humbling and disconcerting to see their grandiose in shambles - crumbled and silent.



The site contains some twenty mosaic floors in the ruins of the thermal baths. I couldn't help but imagine steam rising off those very floors and bare feet walking along them two thousand years ago... no doubt on their way to the vomitorium. Those crazy Romans!



Saturday night we were conned into a pub crawl organized through our hostel. Well, it was actually our own decision to do the pub crawl, but it makes me feel better to believe that I was tricked into it. Morocco was not a fluke; I still deeply reject group tours and all that they stand for.

At one bar, I felt an odd sense of deja vu. Where had I seen a place like this before? Ah yes, middle school - league of nations style. The smoky, techno-infested room felt awkward and forced, and you could clearly make out the country borders. The Portuguese dancing in the middle there. The Germans lined up along the wall, stiff and motionless. This particular middle school dance, however, had the not-so-subtle undertones of sex and alcohol - which made it a good deal more creepy than when we were all twelve, despite the lurking gym teachers.

Sunday - our last day - we went to mass at the Cathedral. Being surrounded by towering stone arches built six hundred years ago and hearing a mass in Spanish, a language that to me sounds ancient and sacred, it kind of makes you hope that there is something more out there. It would be quite a waste of stone otherwise.

It really is a beautiful city and I did enjoy it. I would recommend it to anyone. But I do worry I am becoming one of those hard-to-impress, pretentious travelers. Those people suck. I hope I was just tired in Sevilla.

A brief reflection on body image

A month and a half. Eating everything put within a two foot radius of my mouth and not exercising so much as my pinkie toe, that is how long it took for me to feel a bit squishy around the edges. Not bad I'd say.

Here is the issue. When a Spanish woman makes you, for example, homemade, authentic Paella, a recipe from her mother's mother's mother no doubt, you eat it. You eat that heaping plate and you thank your lucky stars for the experience. And when, a thousand spoonfuls later, she refills your plate with another towering mound, you eat that too. It would be unforgivable to refuse. Down right wrong. So, I will continue to eat my way through Spain like it's my job. Maybe I will go running occasionally, as I did for the first time two days ago, or maybe I will just come back a few pounds jollier. Time will tell. The thing is, it doesn't really matter. Life, I've decided, is about eating really, really good Paella.

Tortas, Greasy Spoons and a Bull Massacre

Last weekend, I stayed in Granada for the first time. Unfortunately, Saturday (and Friday, in retrospect), I was sick with some sort of flu. More Unfortunately, I went to Web MD and managed to diagnose myself with Typhoid Fever, which is of course exactly what I would do. I did lay in bed all day watching LOST, so all was not wasted.

Feeling a bit better Sunday, I decided to go into the center of town with my host family. It was the holiday for the "Virgen de la Angustia," the patron saint of Granada. The name translates to the "Virgen of Anguish" - you can't get more Catholic than that.

On this day, the people who live in the Sierra Nevada region of Las Alpujarras come to Granada for the weekend to sell their fruits, nuts and pastries. The market reminded me of the Madison farmer's market, which made me miss home... until I tried the torta. If I was promised this cake in abundant quantities for the rest of my days, I would gladly stay in Granada forever. This cake was something to write about. Thin, flaky, golden cake filled with rich, oozing chocolate, one day a year. Naturally, I had six pieces of it. When in Spain, eh?

After the market, we went out for lunch. The sandwich shop was hidden away in a narrow, dark alley, without a sign to announce its existence. The place was just one small room, a literal hole in the wall, pouring yellow, warm light into the alley. Pig legs dangled overhead and the menus hung on the walls above the counter, looking as if they'd seen the rise and fall of the Spanish empire from their hooks. The room was hot, packed with Spanish people yelling their orders at the counter. We were squeezed shoulder to shoulder, double-fisting steaming, greasy, meaty sandwiches and bottles of Coke. This place was gritty and unapologetic and I loved it. When I asked Paqui, my host mother, what it was called, she simply shrugged and said "We always go here." I made note of where it was.

After lunch, I met my friend Tom to go to a bull fight. I guess I expected it to be disturbing...but oh was it disturbing.

The bull runs out, already stabbed once to make sure the audience gets a thoroughly ticked off bull, a good show. Next come the Spanish version of rodeo clowns to swish their capes tauntingly at the bull. I too would be agitated if some flamboyantly dressed, twirling men trapped me in a sand pit and came at me with a cape.

Then, the fun ends and the stabbing begins. The men on horses go first, thrusting six foot lances at the bull and violently ripping them out again. Blood poured out of the bulls, spewing into the air like a fountain. Tom and I learned to groan and avert our eyes when the horsemen came out to wreak havoc upon the bulls.



The matador then takes over and the stabbing becomes increases. But from here on out it is more of a dance than anything. The matador gracefully leads the bull around and around, tiring it out before its final moments. When they have exchanged a long enough farewell, the matador thrusts his sword into the Bull's spine. One bull had the audacity to take a poop in the middle of the fight, as if to give the matador one last, grand "screw you." At that moment, I wasn't sure who to root for, the bull or the man.



I understand that this is a part of Spanish culture and that it is something about which I know nothing. I am not offended by what I saw, but I don't think I will be going back. Seeing four bulls die slow, moaning deaths is enough for a while.

I just have this to say. If I had the misfortune of being a bull, I'd rather go down in a frenzy of color and culture and glory than in a packed slaughter house, waiting to become a Big Mac.

We aren't in Epcot anymore

I learned several valuable lessons in Morocco. I learned first that a place can surprise you even when you are expecting to be surprised. I learned that I am not as well traveled as I initially thought, and that in fact, I've barely scratched the surface of world cultures.

And I learned that group tours are never, and I do mean never, the way to go. Okay, maybe I would do a group tour of North Korea if my only clothing choice was a bedazzled star-spangled God-bless-America cut-off tee - and even then I might risk it.

There is nothing wrong with wanting comfort and convenience - but if that means eating only in hotel restaurants and riding camels in parking lots, I personally will opt for traveler's diarrhea and a stolen identity.

Morocco, shockingly, is not at all like the Morocco in Epcot Center at Disney World. Yes, they both have Cous Cous and sand-blasted, eroded buildings, but in the real Morocco, the street vendors have a lot more poverty in their eyes and a lot less of that Disney sparkle.

It is also, again shockingly, nothing like the Bob Hope - Bing Crosby film, The Road to Morocco, where the tag line literally was "You'll Shriek At These Shieks!" I am also probably the only person under the age of seventy who has seen that movie.





Morocco is the most chaotic place I've ever been. The markets were thriving with rushing people, clucking and snorting animals, and dead animals in various states of preparation - from freshly slit, steaming throats to chickens cleaned down to the very last feather. Odors would seep from the cramped booths to burn your nostrils until you wanted to run, eyes watering, to the nearest McDonald's for a Shamrock shake and some distantly processed meat.



But the important thing to do here - I believe - is not to run to those golden arches that symbolize comfort and gluttony, but rather to take it all in, bit by bit, smell by smell. When the initial shock passed, I realized that, well, I kind of like Morocco. The cities there - of which we visited three, Tetouan, Tangier and Chefchaouen - are alive in a way that makes them feel more like separate beings, rather than a collection of buildings. They rush with activity and sweep you away in a blur of senses.

The few precious times they let us off the bus, I was blown away at how different it all was. Even just the writing - so foreign and beautiful and utterly meaningless to me. It was humbling to be completely and totally illiterate.



I also tried my hand at bargaining. Apparently, I am extremely good at it. The key, I find, is to not actually want any of it in the first place. One particularly persistent man - I kid you not - chased me down the street offering me a bracelet for free. No charge. If he had gone any lower, I may have taken it.

We were in Morocco for the last days of Ramadan, so of course Muslims were fasting during the day and being ruthlessly taunted by us at lunch time. We arrived in Tangier right before sundown on Saturday. Everyone in the city had abandoned their lives in search of one collective goal: food. The city was drenched with anticipation. At one point, two young men ran past, so excited - a crock pot in tow between the two of them. It was interesting to see a part of a culture that is totally foreign to me; even fleeting glimpses can show you so much.



So, I can now say I've been to Morocco and I can say I've been to an Arab country. Despite my gripes about the tour (never again), that is a pretty cool thing. Just means I'll have to go back.

So I didn't fall off a mountain

I haven't written in a long time, which must be a good sign, right? Although, ending my last post by saying I am going hiking in the mountains and then failing to write for over a week points towards me cascading to a premature death off a rocky crag more than anything. Well - that did not happen.

Instead, I fell in love with the Sierra Nevada mountains. They are barren and harsh and desolate, but at the same time, there isn't anywhere more alive when its taken in all at once. For me, these mountains epitomize the great outdoors, an overwhelming expanse of nothing and everything at the same time. Golden fields and rolling hills and jagged stone cutting the smooth lines almost violently. It even smelled different - fresher, crisper. I realize I am getting a little poetic but there aren't many places that I've been where I've actually tried to will myself to see farther. It was an intoxicating place.





Jeez, maybe I should get out more often. I'm sure half of you are picturing me weeping silently over my keyboard. You know what? Maybe I am.

But god dammit, those mountains were pretty. I hope I can get back there someday.

So, of course, more has happened since I wrote last. I went to Morocco. But...that should really have it's own blog post...I'll keep you on the edge of your seat for a while longer.

Nerhigh

Last weekend, the majority of us went to Nerja, a beach town on the Costa Del Sol. When I write sentences like that, I see that when it comes time for me to feel homesick, no one is going to feel an ounce of sympathy for me. So yes, Costa Del Sol...pretty good place I'd say. All in all, a successful weekend. Nerja itself seemed like any other beach town anywhere in the world - touristy, crowded, filled with sunburned people. No one spoke to us in Spanish. I don't know if I'd go back just for the beach. I've never really been a beach person, but the experience itself was certainly something to remember.

When we arrived, the owner of the hostel informed us that there were only 6 beds for the 18 of us. Most of us doubled up and there were people on the roof, on couches, in laundry rooms. It looked like his house was leaking Americans. The real spice of the trip, however, was the owner. Blake is that one guy we all knew in high school: growing up he showed some promise, ended up being way too smart for his own good and decided to annihilate his remaining brain cells on various gateway drugs. Intelligence is such a curse! The man had a pipe to his lips every time I saw him. Despite the ungodly amounts of marijuana, he did have one rule: cigarettes outside, weed inside. What a guy.

Despite the... quirky... sleeping situation, the hostel was exactly what a hostel should be: a character-building experience of inadequate bathing and cramped quarters. I enjoyed it thoroughly.

I also had my first Discoteca experience - if you can even call it that - in Nerja. Our downfall was that we chose the one bar, in a whole row of bars, that didn't have a cover charge. In other words, we chose the bar that no one in their right mind would pay for. I am all for cheap but now I know: some things should cost money. It was like we walked straight into purgatory. A place with awful beer, random, mind-numbing music and the strangest assortment of lost souls. Add flashing lights, awkward dancing and a woman in a bunny costume, and you, my friend, are in hell. Maybe I'll give the discotecas another chance, but next time I'll be prepared.

In other news, classes have been going fine - some are boring, some are less boring. I still feel like I am in the middle of an elaborate joke and I will be sent home soon. I learned recently that my Senora (yes, that does translate to "my missus") actually has 5 kids. So that language barrier thing is full of surprises. I also told a man in the elevator "buela", a wrong, but fantastic, combination of Buenos Dias and Hola. Baby steps for me with the fluency goal I guess.

This weekend we go to Alpujarras to hike the Sierra Nevada. I'm hoping for lots of majesty. More on this later.

So maybe it is a bit more different than I expected

So orientation is done. It went smoothly and I feel more or less prepared for the next four months. Mostly orientation felt like the first few days of living in the dorms freshman year. Where in God's name are we? Why are we here? Who are all these people?

We have seen a lot of the city already, including the Alhambra. Granada gained fame as the last Muslim kingdom of Spain. Its grandeur came from the Alhambra, the 14th century Muslim palace looming magnificently above the city. The Alhambra and the rest of Granada were finally surrendered to the aptly named Christian kings in 1492. As Boabdil, the last moorish king of Granada, was leaving the city to return in northern Africa, he looked back over his shoulder at his grand palace one last time and began to weep. To this, his mother replied "Yes, weep like a woman for what you could not defend like a man." Talk about motherly support.

The monument really lives up to its hype. The building's architecture is intricate and breathtaking. It is unbelievable to even fathom the time put into each carving. I can't really describe it accurately enough to do it justice. So I am going to cop out and show you a picture or two instead.





See what I mean?

Saturday we met our host families. My family consists of a mother, Paqui, and her four children, Cristina, Jesus, Antonio and Pablo. That first lunch was definitely when I realized that this is going to be a bit more different than I expected. The kids spoke so fast they could have been speaking in Italian for all I knew and anytime I was asked a question, it needed to be repeated several times before I could stutter out a grammatically incorrect and broken response. I sat mostly in silence, occasionally blurting out compliments about the food. It was humbling.

I do think I will improve. I am starting to be able to express some things about myself that hint at the fact that I have some sort of personality lingering beyond the language barrier. My house is bright and warm and friendly. I am enjoying the toy car collection by my new bed and the large communion portrait staring back at me across the room. I have also been eating my meals next to a full pig's leg in the kitchen. Yum yum.

So that is all for now. Classes have begun and I am getting lost with less and less frequency. Progress!

Fun tidbit: Granada means pomegranate in Spanish.

Leavin on a jet plane...

Greetings from Granada!

We landed in Granada this afternoon after a series of torturous flights. The first flight, I can attribute its enduring misery to myself. I expected Iberia Airlines to be lavishly swanky and well, European, with TV screens in seat backs and delicious, fulfilling meals. But really, it was just like any normal flight, with bad food and worse movies. The flight attendant did list off a surprising amount of movies at the beginning. Maybe first class had a vote or something, but we didn't get to them all. The flight was crowded and impossible to sleep through. A Spanish woman in front of me had a guidebook called "Estados Unidos" which just tickled me. Spainards, they're just like us!

So when we got here, a few people and I went right away to explore the city amidst a cloud of our own body odor and grease, or at least it felt that way. I wish I could describe this place more adequately, but all I can say is it is so beautiful here. I was surprised by how much it looks like Rome or Greece instead of what I thought Spain would look like. But I guess I didn't know what I expected Spain to look like...matadors lurking the streets? The streets are narrow and winding, a maze of alleys shadowed by ancient, stone, crumbling buildings. I'm finally in Europe.

At our first lunch, we all did ridiculously poorly communicating with the waiter. It was pretty pathetic. To top it off, I had Spaghetti Bolognese. Yes, my first meal in Spain was Italian. Hmm.

Tomorrow we start orientation. Ole!

El que mucho habla, mucho erra

I think it is best to begin this account with an anecdote, to get everyone on the same page with how this trip is going to go.

A few weeks ago, in a desperate, but successful, attempt to scrounge up some cash, my sister Beth and I had a good ol' fashioned garage sale. The goal was to fill our pockets and empty our closets (along with most of the silence-of-the-lambs-esque storage room in the basement). Through the sea of bad books, useless appliances and senior citizens came a Columbian family with very limited English. So, I spoke with them in Spanish - my mind a complete haze of conjugations and vocabulary - and I began to feel more confident. Maybe I can do this after all! I am a Spanish goddess! That is, until I informed them that the tiny tchotchke the woman was holding cost 3,500 dollars. Minor mix up of a few spanish terms. That was about when they started to laugh.

All was well; they did buy it. But my point is this: This trip, above anything else, will be interesting. It will, of course, be other things as well. Maybe good: exciting, adventurous, a blur of cities and cuisine and things I don't even know about yet. Maybe bad: neuroses, loneliness, don't even get me started. But above all, I am definitely going to have some good stories. My poor Spanish alone will ensure that. The Europeans are sure to be amused and confused in the coming months.

So - for those who don't know - this trip I keep talking about is my four month study-abroad trip to Granada, Spain. A blink of an eye when you really think about it but worth recording nonetheless. The awkward moments will be as densely packed into this time as a Wal-Mart on Black Friday. Hope nobody gets trampled.

I hope you enjoy the coming stories. I wrote this early, in a frenzy of premature blogaculation, so I won't write again until I arrive.This is for me more than anyone, but I hope it makes you smile a few times. You've read this far, right?

Alright then. First blog post: check.

I have also provided a picture of Spain below for your enjoyment.