To Be Continued

My time in Spain is winding down. 12 days and counting! I am probably way too excited for salmon on the grill, my queen sized bed and a swimming pool. Yet, is that unheard-of? For almost 5 months I have shared a room, lived off ¼ of my wardrobe and somehow politely stomached rabbit, eel and gulas (wiggly worms). When I said I miss home my mother assured me, “that’s normal you’ve been away forever.” Yet, thinking about everything that I will soon be reunited with in the United States makes me reflect on everything I have grown to love here, that which I will miss once I’m fully Americanized again. 1. Maria Jose, I have never had a teacher, guidance councilor or tour guide who has taken so much pride in her job and pupils. Maria Jose is unlike any person I know. She is unbelievably smart, honest and caring. She took every possible measure to make our time abroad, both in the classroom and outside, truly enjoyable and successful. That woman deserves a medal! 2. The CAN CAN and every other local restaurant and bar that welcomed my group with free drinks, as locals, whom they wholeheartedly included in every ounce of fun to be had in this small town. I will miss the European students I met here that improved my Spanish and expanded my outlook on everything from politics to my classes, music and life. 3. Plaza de Cervantes, our meeting ground before every night out and again, the next morning to discuss the night’s festivities. The Plaza is our beach, our cafeteria and library. It is where my stay in Alcala began, where I first exchanged double cheek kisses with my host parents before timidly and silently (as I spoke no Spanish yet) followed them home. The Plaza de Cervantes is also where I will bid Alcala de Henares, its charm and my time here, good-bye, when I load my life back into two suitcases then stuff it below the bus that will inadvertently send me home.

“We live in a wonderful world that is full of beauty, charm and
adventure. There is no end to the adventures we can have if only
we seek them with our eyes open.” - Jawaharial Nehru

Although I miss home I will miss what I have gained here, much more. I cannot say that I will ever return to Alcala. I do promise, however, that this Spanish adventure is the first of many trips that I will take, leave and miss. There is more to see and learn and love. Turn the Paige: A Travel Blog; to be continued.

Barcelona

Like all trips I have taken with my entire group and our program director, Maria Jose, my weekend in Barcelona was loaded with museum visits, architectural sightseeing and cathedral tours. I was really impressed by all of the above, especially the cathedral designed by Gaudi which is still a work in progress 84 years after he died. As I am sure you can imagine, Gaudi’s cathedral is immaculate, innovative and enormous. I truly did enjoy roaming its vastness and imagining its magnificence after completion. On group trips we spend half of our time sightseeing and the other half broken up, to enjoy whichever aspect of the destination we choose. Friends and I ventured to the beach and a fascinating bar called the Dow Jones at night. The Dow Jones was the most unique establishment I have ever frequented. Unlike on Wall Street, patrons at Barcelona’s Dow Jones buy drinks in an attempt to crash the market. An influx in the sale of one drink slashes the price of another in half. It was fun to “Crash the market” with my group.

Barcelona is similar to Madrid. The buildings have character and the nightlife is unreal. Personally, I prefer Barcelona because of its proximity to the ocean. Friends and I spent hours lounging in our jeans and t-shirts on the breezy Barcelona beach. We shared sand coated pizza and the best-of memories we compiled from our 4 ½ months abroad together. Barcelona was beautiful and ideal because it was not too action packed to truly enjoy the city and each other.

Take 2

My flight to Greece was the first ticket I purchased in January when my group and I scrambled to fit an entire continents worth of traveling into four short months. Tori, Marissa, Shelby and I would be Lena Kaligaris, Bridget, Carmen and Tibby of the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants. For those of you not familiar with the PG classic, four friends travel to Greece to find love, adventure and ride mopeds. While we neither met Greek beaus nor toured the city by moped we most certainly found adventure in Greece. On days one and two the girls and I visited the Acropolis, the Parthenon, Poseidon’s Temple and Olympic Stadium. While each was incredible, ancient and picture worthy I think Rome sucked the will to sightsee from the very core of my soul. Four days remaining in an unexpectedly rainy, cold and tourist teeming Athens seemed like an eternity.

Always an optimist, I layered my newest purchase, an “I love Athens” sweatshirt, beneath my hooded wind breaker and the sundress I somehow twisted into a scarf. What to do? The girls and I spent time shopping in a district we found littered by vendors and flea-market sales. When we tired of haggling prices we sought cheap, authentic Greek food. Now it is our turn to be haggled. Choosing a restaurant in Greece is like an extreme sport. One cannot walk 12 feet without being offered a free glass of wine, the best table or tatziki on the house. As tourists we were not aware that these selling ploys are available everywhere. In Athens one must defend their wallets and hankerings against the most skilled of hagglers.

Our hostel in Greece was as gross as the weather. We never found the night life and I sadly did not marvel at the history and culture that defines the city of Athens. Despite the negatives I do not regret the time I spent in Greece. I was luckily surrounded by girls who, like me, aimed to make the best of our situation. While some downtime was spent complaining, and missing home and even our home-stays, we spent most of our vacation in Greece laughing, tried by our situation but happy to be together. While I would never again vacation in Athens I will remember the dreary week I spent there, fondly, because of the happy hooligans who made Greece, and studying Abroad, an unforgettable experience.

Spring Break take 1

I spent the first half of my spring break in Rome, Italy. Roma for me is marked by Pope Benidict XVI and the Ivanhoe Party hostel. For four nights the Ivanhoe provided its guests with everything from feathered bedding to homemade Sicilian Pasta. Florentine, the native Sicilian whose hand rolled rigatoni woke my taste buds from an insipid Spanish slumber, told me that he cooked to make people happy. As I slurped and twirled the luscious linguini I found it impossible to believe he was our hostel host and not a top contender in TLC’s Top Chefs. Needless to say, and just as he’d hoped, his cooking made me happy. Florentine is one of the many colorful comrades that decorated the Ivanhoe during my four night stay.

Like most people who have traveled to Italy I frequented all the must-sees of the historic city. In one day I trekked my faulty flip flops through the shattered stones still standing in the Roman Forum, the Pantheon and the Coliseum. The latter is by far the most magnificent and well-preserved historical landmark that I have ever visited, climbed or stood inside. The girls and I spent two hours in the Coliseum eavesdropping beside every English tour guide who passed us so we could learn as much as possible about the gorgeous gates of granite we wandered through. More than any other historical site I’ve seen, the Coliseum took my breath away. Later in the week we toured both the Vatican Museum and St. Peter’s basilica. I was additionally given the opportunity to attend Palm Sunday mass at St. Peter’s Basilica. When I was handed the free ticket my initial thought was, why not? The mass was in Italian and my “late” arrival, solely one hour early, left me smooshed behind and between too many tall Catholics. So technically speaking, I neither saw nor understood the majority of the service. Yet, must one comprehend everything, in its entirety, to take part in it? I stood beside families with clenched hands and waving palms. Women cried as they stood sprinkled by holy water. Being abroad has taught me one mustn’t understand everything, fully, to embrace it. If that was my mindset I would have neither spoken nor tried anything new, as a foreigner in Spain. Thus, although I could make no sense of the Pope’s homily I fully embraced the height of unity and emotion dispensed throughout the diverse crowd of devout worshipers. Being involved in this sacred and celebrated event connected me further to the extraordinary city I’d been raving about all week.

Segovia

I am a bizarre sleeper. My roommate reports to me each morning whether I laughed or kicked or spoke spanglish the night before as I dreamt. Today I woke up happy to be living in the 21st century. In Spain before the 2nd century women in Segovia, Spain literally trekked miles so that they and their families could stay hydrated and be cleaned by the nearest fresh water lining the Guadarrama moutains. Yesterday I stood beneath the oldest, most incredible piece of architecture I have ever seen. Granite stones masterfully molded into arches floating 900 ft above me. I first feared that I would be crushed by the ancient design, secured solely by architectural genius. Then, they drew me in. I stood directly beneath the keystone or center stone that fastens every perfectly sized stone together. Without cement, caulk or Elmer’s glue the Roman’s engineered an aqueduct that provided water to the town of Segovia since 2nd century. It worked as the sole water supplier for the town of Segovia until the 1960’s. Glaring up through these man-made rocky rainbows I saw daylight seeping through every crevice between each stone and its neighbor. The aqueduct and monuments like it make me truly appreciate Europe for its age and beauty. Unlike the United States, which is youthful, modern and progressive, Spain and Europe in general is ancient and brimming with culture and diversity. There is so much to see and even more to learn. Bring it on Europa!

"life is a beach I'm just playing in the sand"

It is not as if I particularly needed a vacation. I’ve been to Amsterdam, Valencia, Granada, Cordoba and most recently, Sevilla. I have experienced really no lapse from fun since I arrived in Spain in early January. That being said, my irish complexion is in no position to deny an island’s heaping dose of Vitamin D. So, along with 10 friends I ventured south towards Africa, where I graced Gran Canaria’s many nude beaches with my fully suited self. There, most people spoke English so we had no problem navigating or communicating. My trip to the Canary Islands was most definitely the most laid back of those I’ve taken so far. I was neither sleep deprived nor anxious because on an island there is no tour bus to catch or landmark to miss. Like a true islander I sipped frothy, fruity cocktails and soothed my midday fatigue with a siesta in the sand. I have taken full advantage of every tour guide, museum leaflet and cathedral brochure passed my way. It is therefore nice to swap my walking shoes with flip flops to bask in serenity and sunshine available in the Canary Islands.

Andalucía

In Granada I pondered sky diving, dread locking my hair and staying in the south of Spain forever. That is until I ventured west to Sevilla where row boats became taxis and no restaurant dared to stray far from the water front. Granadians are happy and inventive and unique. The mountainous town is dotted by hippies and sparkles from the impeccable jewelry that they wear and share with tourists. In Granada people are not burdened by beggars. Instead, I became infatuated with the musical, bubble blowing and clown-like drifters. I have never been more inclined to donate my lunch funds, as I was in Granada, to a unicycle riding, flower weaving gypsy, named Andy.

In Spain they say there are 9 months of winter and 3 months of hell. I am told the temperature in the South of Spain is unbearable during summer, from June through August. Yet, in my opinion, where the sun shines hotter the gelato comes cheaper and I think Andalucía is the most incredible place I have ventured thus far. Besides the historical knowledge I learned from Maria Jose’s tour in Sevilla, I gained a deeper appreciation for culture and the general zest for pleasure shared by all Spaniards. Poor people in the south of Spain wanted my camaraderie as much as they yearned for my lunch money. Shelby and I trekked to the peak of Granada to buy hand crafted jewelry and share tapas overlooking the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Our two hour trip extended to an entire afternoon spent amongst musical hippies, their friendly families and other appreciative tourists. We sat, sun kissed and completely saturated by the social climate in the height of the city. To me Andalucía represents all that I will learn outside of my classrooms in Alcala. I will forever cherish the south of Spain where I learned as much about myself as I did that area, in this incredible country that I’ve been blessed to call my home away from home for over 4 months.

March Madness

Costumes in Spain are like business casual garb in the U.S. In the last two weeks I have been both a carrot top and a vampire, I have feasted as a feathered masquerader and painted myself Irish; a makeshift leprechaun. For 3 weeks Spaniards celebrate carnival and use it as an excuse to regress 20 years and color themselves children. Men and women from 4-84 paraded the cities streets dressed as anything, from smurfs to pirates, boxers and Barbie dolls. Their rhythm came from music gasping through scratchy speakers in an overworked pickup truck. I often saw it pushed from the pavement as Alcala’s crowds swelled, fully dominating its cobble stoned streets. The Carnival crazies danced for days so I, in turn, bought costumes to compliment their passion for the holiday.

Carnival in Alcala and many parts of Europe is not unlike Valencia’s Las Fallas. There, the entire city also takes to the streets as their grounds for expression. In Valencia I encountered the most meticulous, expensive and destructive hobby; what essentially distinguishes Valencia’s festival as Las Fallas. All year participants construct massive paper mashie structures, sculpted in detail to the panorama of their choice. Sculptures ranged from twisted and trippy to supernatural, then humorous all on one block. Las fallas literally means the fires so on the final weekend of the festival, after the winner has been chosen, Valencia’s fanatics torch each painted piece and celebrate as it simmers to ash. The entire town encourages the mayhem that is Valencia. Bars move their business to the streets and pastry vendors operate their deep fryers on overdrive. Like Carnival it is an experience to magical to miss. I am so glad I get to be apart of this culture!

"The Valley of Falling"

I renamed the Valley of the Fallen the “Valley of Falling” immediately when I exited the tour bus to meet a starchy sheet of mountain snow with my butt. The Valley of the Fallen in El Escorial holds the world’s largest free-standing Christian cross. It is erected into the mountains and stands above a colossal Catholic church that houses the tomb of Francisco Franco. As I have not yet been to Rome, this church mesmerized me as most massive religious place I have been inside. I was a raindrop inside its ocean like vastness. To imagine its size, consider that when it was originally constructed, following the Spanish Civil War, the Pope insisted Franco downsize his cathedral because its immensity threatened the Vatican’s position as supreme Catholic authority. Both the cross and cathedral are products of republican labor after their defeat in the Spanish Civil War. Backbreaking construction was ordered by Franco and led to innumerable republican deaths; their graves now scatter the mountainous shrine commemorating Franco.

The intermingling of Franco’s corpse and those republican prisoners, who died under his iron fist, alone, makes the Valley of the Fallen in El Escorial a controversial place. Yet, it is more fascinating to note that those who were not tourists like me, taking posed pictures and being shhhhed by security, were Nationalists (historically defined as Francoists). WOw! Rebels still exist? They are not barbarian murderers now exiled in far away land? This is the first of many realizations that have widened my eyes and expanded my mind like elastic.

In my literature course abroad I’ve studied the Spanish Civil War extensively. The Bad Guys (Francoists) beat the Good Guys (republicans) and horrifically, Spain was overrun by Franco and fascism. This was my understanding before my visit to El Escorial. There I shared an aisle with Spaniards whose weekly routine it is to worship the Lord, and probably pay respect to Franco, in the Valley of the Fallen. It was first hard to understand why Spaniards would kneel beside Francisco Franco, the man who tore apart their nation less than a century ago. Then, I was introduced to a new perspective. “Under Franco Alcala was cleaner, it was safer for women and everyone was respectful; they cared about God.” From the many sweet Spaniards who frequented Franco’s cathedral and my friend, whose host mother raved about the city during Franco’s regime, I am able to recognize what was awful for some Spaniards gave peace to others. Thus, I am in no position to deem all Francoists bad nor their opposition totally good. It is like every mother has said; two wrongs do not make a right.

This visit, followed by a guided tour through King Phillip II’s summer palace, also located in San Lorenzo de El Escorial, is the first of many trips I will take to explore the culture and history of Spain. They differ from the tropical beaches and dazzling discotechas I will later frequent because they serve as a historical hiatuses from the beloved humdrum of life as a college student, schoolwork, sleep, party etc. To explore the cathedrals, palaces and tombs of the men and women who’ve both built a nation then bombed it down frees me from the bubble that so many college students have grown comfortable inside. I want to soak in Spain like a sponge so I am drenched and fulfilled and no bubble can find the friction to entrap me.

STRIKE A POSE

Madonna has nothing on the men and women who ‘vogue’ powerfully on the tables and chairs of Gula Gula every Friday and Saturday night. For those of you who do not have a Madonna worshipping mother to buy you Madonna’s Greatest Hits for your 10^th birthday, ‘voguing’ is the dance form that was made popular in the 80’s by Madonna’s chart topping music video, Vogue. The song, whose lyrics include, strike a pose, accuratly describes the dance techniche. Voguing is characterized by model like poses and sharp, angular body movements and positions. While voguing is historically associated with African Americans and homosexuals one must be neither black nor homosexual to marvel at the dance form and identify with its purpose for expression. At Gula Gula I laughed out loud and stared in awe as corpselike white figures sauntered through the restaurant and buff belly dancers bent themselves in half just 3 feet away from my table. Gula Gula did more than amuse me. It opened my eyes to the vast opportunities for entertainment one can find in a culturally rich city like Madrid.

     On Saturday night men wore gowns and painted their cheeks. Bedazzled performers enchanted an audience of male, female, strait, gay, Caucasian, Spanish and African Americans alike. In a world that’s so conflicted it pleases me to be fascinated by strangers, sitting beside other foreigners, by something as pure and simple as dancing.

GULA GULA

Cold Feet & Sweet Treats

     It’s truly difficult to put the Red Light district into words. The adventure began with my roommate Shelby and a 4:00 am cab ride to Madrid-Barajas Airport. Surprisingly not tired and two and a half hours early, which I now understand as pointless when flying throughout Europe, I had ample time to scan my surroundings. The most interesting individuals fly in the wee hours of the morning. Grown men lay sprawled out on the airport floor while sleepy sisters lazily shared one seat and an iPod bopping endlessly to its shuffle. After two long hours of bopping snoring Shelby and I boarded Jet Air and soured away to the Netherlands.

Step 1: find our hostel. Finding hostel Croydon involved my first encounter with the public transportation I would continue to battle bravely during my tour de Amsterdam. Trams, trains and cars do not seem intimidating or strange to see in any city setting. However, such common forms of transportation become an unbelievable obstacle when they speed through the city’s streets, all uniformly lined by bike lanes. Separate passageways are necessary to accommodate Amsterdam’s overwhelming population of bike riders. “Bike rider” seems an unsuitable title for Dutch cyclists. Because I was practically pummeled by several riders I now deem every aggressive Amsterdonian an ultimate contender for the Netherlands Olympic cycling team. 

     Transportation became easier once Shelby mastered her map of the area and I stopped marveling at the incredible architecture, twisting canals and dreamy Dutch boys while crossing the street. The Dutch are not only beautiful blond dreamboats, but some of the most helpful people I have met thus far in Europe. Directions, prices and tourist type advice are much easier to request in countries like Amsterdam where most people speak English and I can ask questions without making my prime focus verb conjugation.

     During my visit to Amsterdam I toured the city by boat, wandered Ann Frank’s house and the museum below it before being brewed into a Heineken beer at Netherland’s original “Heineken experience.” During the remainder of time spent in the Dam Shelby and I preached brand loyalty and requested solely Heineken beer from any suitor offering to buy drinks. My list of activities cannot be complete without mentioning the incredible food I enjoyed in the classy cafes that decorated the city. While gourmet pancakes, Tai takeout, and fire hot fajitas were an incredible treat nothing quite topped the sweet and cheap strawberry waffle pastries I scoffed twice, daily from the crimson corner vendors that litter the Red Light District with flavor.

     While cold, complicated and confusing Amsterdam was an incredible city and I will forget nothing about this trip. From my filthy hostel, whose steps were ladder-like and semi-impossible to climb, to club Noel, where Shelby and I stood as Smurfs beside Amazonian like Dutch natives, Amsterdam made its mark on my master list of extraordinary adventures to be had abroad.

And then I ate a bunny's shoulder...

The passion I first felt for Spanish cuisine was abruptly silenced today when my host mother served rabbit for lunch. I am no animal rights activist; I do not flinch when my grandmother wears fur or when my mother marinates steak before family dinners. I’m a carnivore, a meat eater, a burger lover! It was thus not the taste of rabbit which offended my taste buds and twisted my stomach. Rather, it was my host mother’s portrayal of the small, helpless hopping rabbit that churned my insides and sickened my conscience. After Pepita (my host mother) referenced its white cotton tail and floppy ears through charade like gestures Shelby shouted “BUNNY!” I immediately slapped my hand to my lips while Pepita giggled hilariously and asked “te gusta?” (Do you like it). As I chugged every drop of water left in my glass my host mother compared it to chicken and pointed to the half eaten bone of white meat on my plate.

WHEN IN SPAIN.   

CAN CAN I can do the CAN CAN

I must start by stating some of my greatest experiences in college have been marked by the incredible friends I’ve met in Baltimore at the many keg parties and the college bars which dominate Loyola’s social scene. Unforgettable places that are littered by plastic cups and empty beer kegs, undoubtedly once filled by Keystone Light, have so far been the highlight of my nights out as a college student. While I cherish such evenings in Baltimore I came to Europe bursting with excitement for a fresh social scene. So far, that is most definitely what I’ve received. The bars and discotechas in Alcala, like Media Pinta and Club Can Can, are similar to those I frequent in the United States. The major difference is that as a guest in these bars I am not only a stranger but a foreigner to the Spaniards and other international students studying in Alcala. Last night alone, I spoke Spanish with the locals, deciphered thick Irish accents and befriended Americans from the University of Arizona. It’s exciting to know that by making new friends in Alcala I am indirectly exploring new cultures.  Happy hours in Tapas bars have also been incredible. In such places groups are able to order beverages with which they receive free appetizers. Alone a free appetizer excited my table. When we eventually understood that we could all choose our own dish, then share, our delight doubled.

I love Spain because it is new and foreign and wild. So far everything has been pleasant and everyday has been unpredictable, attributable to both my language barrier and the fabulously funny Loyolians who have become more than just my classmates!

Mis primeros días en España...

     Spain so far has been a whirl wind. It is my third day in Alcala and I feel like I have already done so much! Beginning at Madrid’s airport, following a six hour plane ride from Newark to Spain, I’ve experienced constant feelings of exhaustion and excitement. My excitement conquered the jet lag one inevitably experiences after flying internationally. Thus, I was able to be mentally present at each pre-semester meeting and orientation session we have had so far. Like most members of my group I am physically tired. I have had no problem participating in siestas each day, which are customary mid day naps for Spanish people. In only three days I have met many international students, professors and citizens within the city of Alcala. I have also covered what I consider to be a significant portion of the city by foot. During these exploratory walks I have perused countless bars, restaurants and shops. While I have both eaten out and at home, with my host family, every meal, snack and beverage has been a surprise! This may be one of the most interesting elements of my trip so far. Because I speak minimal Spanish I cannot translate most of the cuisine and beverages listed on the menus here. Attempting to slow down my group and the waitress as little as possible I choose whichever dish/drink initially attracts me the most. My orders so far have included hot milk, churro-like funnel cake for breakfast and more potato salad then anyone could possibly consume.

Needless to say Spain thus far has been incredibly confusing, draining and surreal. I LOVE it here.