I haven’t spotted anyone wearing my coat, yet. I still have nineteen hours to find it.
Yesterday, I walked around with Irene. We ate churros con chocolate. Churros taste like elephant ears, and they look like… churros. You dip ‘em in what they call hot chocolate and what we call hot chocolate pudding.
We walked to a park by the bus station and slid on the slide. The slide was a dragon. You could slide down the tail or the mouth.
We walked to the MirO park to look at MirO’s Giant Red Yellow Blue Green sculpture. I wanted to touch it, but it was surrounded by a shallow pond. So we took our shoes and socks off and rolled up our pants and waded out into the slimy water. The sculpture felt like a… sculpture: magical.
I walked her home and went home for dinner. My senora made spaghetti with a Gouda-based alfredo sauce, and she put two slices of bacon on top. She gave me two fried eggs on a separate plate. I had banana yogurt for dessert.
After dinner, the two of us watched Gran Hermano. She loves reality shows. I don’t, so, eventually, I went to my room to read.
I went to the bathroom, just now, and the TV was on. My senora had fallen asleep while playing her Nintendo DS. I heard Tetris.
Today, I’m going to pack, buy some plane oranges and Mars Bars, eat one last kebab, shave, write a postcard, shower, and go to the airport.
It’s three a.m. I’m leaving for the airport around 10 p.m. I’ll arrive in Michigan about 10 p.m the next day. There’s much more to write about: my love for the escalators, my senora’s classy toilet paper, my new found respect for bar soap… Also, I haven’t shared some stories, so that I can tell them in person: Carnival, Fira de Abril, parts of Ireland, undercover police… You’ll have to ask me.
Brave Potatoes, thanks for reading. This time Wednesday, I’ll be at the all-you-can-eat personal pan pizza day at Pizza Hut. Frank’s Red Hot.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Friday, April 23, 2010
Exams
Monday, April 19, 2010
It’s the final countdown.
My last week in Spain, and I’ve had two new experiences: The other day, I accidentally flicked some toothpaste in my eye. That hurts more than ranch in the eye or Russian dressing in the eye. Hours later, I sprayed the same eye with cologne. That hurts more than toothpaste in the eye. Now, that particular eye is very well-groomed.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
I got up for my exam, this morning. My senora gave me Nutella for breakfast for the first time. She really knows the way to my heart.
After breakfast, on my way to the metro, I saw a beautiful female. We looked at each other. And I was thinking, “Oh, hey, girl.” And she was thinking, “Oh, hey.” And I was thinking, “If you get on that train, I’m going to get your number.” And she was thinking, “I wonder if I have a pen and paper, so that I can give you my number.” And I was thinking, “I can make a mean spaghetti.” And she was thinking, “I hope he knows how to make good spaghetti.” Then we stopped looking at each other.
We both walked coolly and casually towards the metro station. We walked to the escalator and stood on the steps. Then, we heard our metro arrive. We both casually hurried a little, walking up the escalator steps. Then, we heard the BEEP BEEP BEEP of the closing metro doors. So we sprinted. She coolly slipped into the first open door. I, still sprinting, coolly slipped into the next open door and accidentally bashed my head against the low doorway. My smooth entrance included an “AH, JEEZ THAT HURT.”
Things were going well.
She was laughing. Some Mormons Elders entered my car at the next stop. I struck up a conversation. Nice guys. But it was a distraction, and the girl bounced at sometime unknown.
It’s the final countdown.
My last week in Spain, and I’ve had two new experiences: The other day, I accidentally flicked some toothpaste in my eye. That hurts more than ranch in the eye or Russian dressing in the eye. Hours later, I sprayed the same eye with cologne. That hurts more than toothpaste in the eye. Now, that particular eye is very well-groomed.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
I got up for my exam, this morning. My senora gave me Nutella for breakfast for the first time. She really knows the way to my heart.
After breakfast, on my way to the metro, I saw a beautiful female. We looked at each other. And I was thinking, “Oh, hey, girl.” And she was thinking, “Oh, hey.” And I was thinking, “If you get on that train, I’m going to get your number.” And she was thinking, “I wonder if I have a pen and paper, so that I can give you my number.” And I was thinking, “I can make a mean spaghetti.” And she was thinking, “I hope he knows how to make good spaghetti.” Then we stopped looking at each other.
We both walked coolly and casually towards the metro station. We walked to the escalator and stood on the steps. Then, we heard our metro arrive. We both casually hurried a little, walking up the escalator steps. Then, we heard the BEEP BEEP BEEP of the closing metro doors. So we sprinted. She coolly slipped into the first open door. I, still sprinting, coolly slipped into the next open door and accidentally bashed my head against the low doorway. My smooth entrance included an “AH, JEEZ THAT HURT.”
Things were going well.
She was laughing. Some Mormons Elders entered my car at the next stop. I struck up a conversation. Nice guys. But it was a distraction, and the girl bounced at sometime unknown.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
I look like an American
Four guys in a car pulled to the side of the road and started yelling in Spanish, “Amigo, amigo, wait, wait.”
So I did. It was mid-afternoon, and I had time to wait.
The front passenger asked, “Do you know Italian?” And he was, certainly, speaking Spanish with an Italian accent, with the wave-like, up-and-down, pronunciation of the words. ArRIVeDERci.
“No.”
“Do you speak Spanish?”
“A little.”
“Me too. We need help. Wait, please. We’ll pull over.”
I waited and they pulled over and only the spokesmen of the car got out to talk with me.
He started, “We’re looking for the airport. We’re businessmen, and we’re looking for the airport. Are you a tourist?” He said all this very slowly and repeated the words that he thought were important like “aERoPUERto” and “tuRISto.”
I said I was a student from the United States. Obviously. I wore my backpack and a Hope sweatshirt. About no Europeans wear clothes with words on them unless it’s “Springfield” or “Gucci” or something like that. But I told him anyway.
He continued in English and spoke quickly, “Very good. We were here for a computer conference. You know conference? We were here for a computer conference, and now it’s over, and we’re looking for the airport. We work for Apple. You know Apple? It’s from California.”
I nodded. All of these things could have been true. There was a conference center right up the road.
“Good.” And he shook my hand. “We need to find the airport because we have computers with us and we don’t want to take the bus. We have four computers. This is too many. We would like to give you one. For free. You like the Apple computers? We have too many computers. We can’t bring them all to Italy. They are in the car. Come, I’ll show you.”
HA. “That’s alright.”
“You don’t like the Apple computers?”
“No. They aren’t for me.”
“We have iPhones. You like iPhones? We have five iPhones. Too many. We give you two for free. You want to see? Come to the car. Let me show you.”
I did want to see, dammit. Maybe, just to see if they existed. But a walk to the car didn’t seem like it was worth my curiosity. It was a good fifteen feet away.
“You don’t like iPhone?”
I did not. And he shook my hand and walked away.
So I did. It was mid-afternoon, and I had time to wait.
The front passenger asked, “Do you know Italian?” And he was, certainly, speaking Spanish with an Italian accent, with the wave-like, up-and-down, pronunciation of the words. ArRIVeDERci.
“No.”
“Do you speak Spanish?”
“A little.”
“Me too. We need help. Wait, please. We’ll pull over.”
I waited and they pulled over and only the spokesmen of the car got out to talk with me.
He started, “We’re looking for the airport. We’re businessmen, and we’re looking for the airport. Are you a tourist?” He said all this very slowly and repeated the words that he thought were important like “aERoPUERto” and “tuRISto.”
I said I was a student from the United States. Obviously. I wore my backpack and a Hope sweatshirt. About no Europeans wear clothes with words on them unless it’s “Springfield” or “Gucci” or something like that. But I told him anyway.
He continued in English and spoke quickly, “Very good. We were here for a computer conference. You know conference? We were here for a computer conference, and now it’s over, and we’re looking for the airport. We work for Apple. You know Apple? It’s from California.”
I nodded. All of these things could have been true. There was a conference center right up the road.
“Good.” And he shook my hand. “We need to find the airport because we have computers with us and we don’t want to take the bus. We have four computers. This is too many. We would like to give you one. For free. You like the Apple computers? We have too many computers. We can’t bring them all to Italy. They are in the car. Come, I’ll show you.”
HA. “That’s alright.”
“You don’t like the Apple computers?”
“No. They aren’t for me.”
“We have iPhones. You like iPhones? We have five iPhones. Too many. We give you two for free. You want to see? Come to the car. Let me show you.”
I did want to see, dammit. Maybe, just to see if they existed. But a walk to the car didn’t seem like it was worth my curiosity. It was a good fifteen feet away.
“You don’t like iPhone?”
I did not. And he shook my hand and walked away.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Roommate Surprise
I arrived home from Spring Break to find that my senora had moved me into a new room. Yass, yass. It was exciting.
My old room was tiny. I had a desk, a bed, and a closet. I could sit on my bed and work at my desk then grab a sweatshirt out of the closet without changing position. When I first arrived here, my senoras son wanted to measure me to make sure the bed would fit, but I told them it wasn’t important. My feet are used to hanging off the bed. The size of the room didn’t bother me. The window bothered me. It was small and didn’t let in much light because it was facing another building.
On days in which I had particularly smelly, nacho feet or rambunctious, egg gas, I’d open my minuscule window to try to dissipate the WMD’s with a cool breeze, some fresh air. But none would come. Instead, I’d be welcomed with the aroma of the Kebab restaurant down-below. So my habitat would smell like nacho, rotten egg, lamb sandwiches.
When my senora told me about the room swap, I started to loudly express my euphoria, but then, she quieted me. She said there were people sleeping. I thought it was her grandson and daughter. But the next morning, while I was eating my bowl of Copos Integral, two dudes come out of the room and sat down for brekkers. Surprise.
They were from Luxembourg. They were on a week-long high school trip and my senora was housing them, too. I laughed: two high schoolers living in that tiny-ass rotten lamb sandwich room. You’d have to go in there with a hazmat suit and a torch.
They were nice kids. They tried hard to keep up a good conversation at the dinner table, even though they weren’t very good at English or Spanish, and they didn’t play their techno too loud.
This week, my senora’s got a couple of French girls in that room. No, they’re sixteen. And they don’t hold up a conversation like the Luxembourgers. They seem kind of snobby. That might be a product of the language barrier, though. I like ‘em well enough. They don’t eat much. More for me.
My new room is real classy. I have a huge closet where I can spread out the little clothes I brought to Spain. Each shirt has its own shelf. The window is huge. It looks towards the mountain, and I can, actually, see the mountain.
My old room was tiny. I had a desk, a bed, and a closet. I could sit on my bed and work at my desk then grab a sweatshirt out of the closet without changing position. When I first arrived here, my senoras son wanted to measure me to make sure the bed would fit, but I told them it wasn’t important. My feet are used to hanging off the bed. The size of the room didn’t bother me. The window bothered me. It was small and didn’t let in much light because it was facing another building.
On days in which I had particularly smelly, nacho feet or rambunctious, egg gas, I’d open my minuscule window to try to dissipate the WMD’s with a cool breeze, some fresh air. But none would come. Instead, I’d be welcomed with the aroma of the Kebab restaurant down-below. So my habitat would smell like nacho, rotten egg, lamb sandwiches.
When my senora told me about the room swap, I started to loudly express my euphoria, but then, she quieted me. She said there were people sleeping. I thought it was her grandson and daughter. But the next morning, while I was eating my bowl of Copos Integral, two dudes come out of the room and sat down for brekkers. Surprise.
They were from Luxembourg. They were on a week-long high school trip and my senora was housing them, too. I laughed: two high schoolers living in that tiny-ass rotten lamb sandwich room. You’d have to go in there with a hazmat suit and a torch.
They were nice kids. They tried hard to keep up a good conversation at the dinner table, even though they weren’t very good at English or Spanish, and they didn’t play their techno too loud.
This week, my senora’s got a couple of French girls in that room. No, they’re sixteen. And they don’t hold up a conversation like the Luxembourgers. They seem kind of snobby. That might be a product of the language barrier, though. I like ‘em well enough. They don’t eat much. More for me.
My new room is real classy. I have a huge closet where I can spread out the little clothes I brought to Spain. Each shirt has its own shelf. The window is huge. It looks towards the mountain, and I can, actually, see the mountain.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Primavera Sangreterra
Things I did on the Ireland trip in chronological order:
Talked to some American kids on the bus to the Girona airport. They were loud, and they were freaked out by my deductive reasoning, that they, too, were going to Dublin. It did not make me proud to be American.
Started a conversation with an American girl on the plane. She was knitting. Ock knits. Ock is way cooler.
Got to the Dublin airport at about one in the mooorning, and decided to spend the night rather than look for a hostel. Ended up chatting for most of the night with a Spanish girl that studied in Belfast. She was headed home for spring break.
Took a bus into Dublin at six-thirty AM. Had a hot chocolate in McDonalds and read the Dublinish paper. The McDonalds had waterless urinals and high-tech hand dryers.
Found my hostel, but it was too early to check-in. Went to the Guinness factory. Met some dude that talked too much and spent too much money on hotels. Then some Italian guys offered me a cigarette and I pretended to smoke it so that I could enjoy some conversation. Do real smokers know when people are pretending to smoke cigarettes? Their most coherent sentence was – We like drink. They were on spring break, too.
Went back to the hostel. Bought a bed from some Nevada kids that booked an extra one on accident. Explored a little. Went to bed. Talked literature with a Slovakian kid in my room. Fell asleep.
Woke up. Met some nice American girls that said I snored. Ate the free breakfast. Off-brand Nutella. Met an Austrian dude that was headed to Belfast. He had room in the car, but he was boring. Made a sack lunch. Had a free walking tour of the city that cost four euros in tips. Explored the city. Checked-in again at the hostel. Met Willy. Talked to Willy. Willy was at least fifty-years-old. He was from Galway and was staying the night in the Dublin hostel after visiting some friends. He hadn’t tried peanut butter before, so I offered him some of mine. I asked – Is it good, Willy? And he said – Oh, ’tis, ’tis. Quite lovely. Willy’s motto was – It’s nice to be nice.
Walked to the docks. Came back. Read. Found the Nevada kids drinking. They offered me a beer, the first of many offered by them and received by me. Went out with the Nevada kids. Danced with a girl from Iowa. Got pizza. Went back to hostel and caked on the American girls that know I snore. Went to bed.
Woke up. Had hangover. Guinness is mean in the morning. It also produces copious rotten egg gas. Ate. Made a sack lunch. Bounced for Cork. It was a long walk to the outskirts of the city of Dublin. Made a sign from a paper bag that I found on the road. It read: Cork. Stood by the highway with my thumb up. Got a lift (“ride” is not to be used in Ireland) to a better spot. Stood. Got a lift with a Pakistani dude to Portlaoise. We talked about war and friendship and whatnot.
It was late. Took a bus to Limerick. Got lost in Limerick. Looked for a hostel in Limerick. Asked for directions at a gas station. Asked for directions at a halfway house. Asked for directions at a college. There are no hostels in Limerick.
Found the Railway Hotel. Met a lady and her daughter. Asked them for directions to a cheaper hotel. They led the way and explained that I should be careful at night in Limerick. She told me that her and her daughter had been living in hotels for the last few weeks because they moved out of the husband’s house. So their hotel judgment was to be trusted. They brought me to the Boutique Hotel. It was more expensive than the Railway Hotel. The concierge told me that the Railway Hotel was where men bring whores. I stayed at the Boutique Hotel. I would have probably gotten lost on the way back to the Railway, and I didn’t have a whore, anyway.
Ate breakfast, full Irish breakfast: over-easy egg, halved tomato, toast with black current jam, brown bread, good bacon, home fries, black pudding and white pudding. Black pudding is sausage with blood in it. Not bad. Explored the city. Took a bus to Cork. Met a nice university student on the bus, ginger. She was an English literature student, and we had a wonderful chat. She let me use her cellphone to call my couchsurfing host in Cork. Then she showed me around a little in Cork.
Met up with Anders, the couchsurfing host. He moved there with his girlfriend, Tineska, from Sweden. They moved to Cork two months ago, and both of them started their first job the day I arrived. We chatted. We met Tineska as she got back from her job. We went to a health food store, then to their apartment, then ate couscous. They’re vegans. Went to bed.
Woke up. Explored the city. Went to Blarney. Kissed stone. Went back and met up with the Swedish couple. We ate spaghetti and went to a pub. Listened to live Irish music. The best part was when the band stopped, not because it was bad but because, in the interludes, old, drunken, Irish men sang slow Celtic songs and the whole bar gets quiet. Went to bed.
Woke up. Bounced for Tulley Cross. Walked to a gas station on the outskirts of the city of Cork. Tineska told me that hitchhiking works better if you ask for lifts at gas stations. It’s true. Got a lift from a Polish dude to Mallow. Forgot my hitchhiking hat in his car. My ears were cold for the rest of the trip.
Got a lift with a private investigator and his son to Limerick. They loved America. The guy gave me a ride because I was American. He even asked me my nationality before he confirmed my seat. He thought I was Canadian, at first. They talked about how much they loved America and how much they hated Ireland. They go to Disney world every year. The PA had tattoos of Disney characters.
Got a lift with some university students to Galway. They dropped me off in a poorly-located location. Walked for an hour before I got to a good hitchhiking spot.
Got a lift to Moycullen from a construction worker.
Got a lift to Clifden from an English lady. It was hailing and no one was at my gas station so I had my thumb up. She pulled over. She was a journalist and a self-professed hippy. She lived and wrote and raised ponies in Connemara (the region that Clifden and Tulley Cross are in). Talking to her was nice. She told me stories about Connemara. And we talked about journalism and how far it has come, how far civilization has come. She’d see something of the modern world and slap me on the shoulder and say things like – Robert, could you explain telephone lines to Henry VIII… or cars to Queen Elizabeth… or the internet? By golly Robert, could you explain the internet?
She talked to me as we entered Connemara. It’s the most beautiful country I’ve ever seen.
Got a ride to Tully Cross from the government appointed physician from Letterfrack. He was headed to Letterfrack but he drove the extra three miles to Tulley Cross anyway. He was very Irish. He was cheery and helpful and told me about all the places where my lads should bring me when I meet them in Tulley Cross. And he pointed out a rainbow to me.
Arrived in Tulley Cross. Portice studies there. It’s a study abroad program through Aquinas. They send a group of students and teachers to this spot in rural Ireland every year to study Irishness.
The town: nine cottages, a bar, a hotel, a church, a few houses, and a closed-down bar. At the hotel, I inquired where the students live. They live in the cottages. The students were in class. I found Ellen and Molly, two Aquinas people not in class. Chilled with them. Met with Portice. Ate. Watched a movie. Went to bed.
The following days were what made Ireland wonderful for me. The snowy mountains outside the kitchen window, the lakes, the friendliness, the tacos, the Irish air, the sheep, the weather, the broken cottage heater, the long walks to the grocery store, the garlic cheese fries, the peat. The simplicity. The following days:
Woke up. Ate. Went to the beach. Came back. Did stuff. Went to pub. Drank Guinness. Came back. Went to bed.
Woke up. Went to Kylemore Abby. Walked back. Made dinner: spaghetti with tomato sauce that looked like garbage but tasked like tomato sauce. Ate. Went to Irish house party. Drank Bulmers, hard cider. Met some Irishmen. Watched an Irish comedian on TV. Went to bed.
Woke up. Played cards. Ate. Went to futbol game. Drank cider. Went to disco. Danced. Drank Guinness. Undrank Guinnness. Chilled. Almost didn’t go to bed to climb a hill with some crazies to watch the sunrise. Went to bed.
That was all I needed. Connemara is where it’s at.
Woke up. Happy Easter. Got a lift to Clifden from the parents of an Aquinas student. Megan, an Aquinas student, was my travel companion. We got a lift to Galway from a nice Polish couple. The two of us went to McDonalds to eat Cadbury crème egg McFlurries. Ate one and a half more to see if I liked em. I did. We chilled and then went to a hostel and then Megan left for Dublin.
Woke up. Explored city. Met with Emily, another Aquinas student that was headed the same direction that I was headed. We took a bus to Dublin then watched Kick Ass then went to a pub then went to bed.
Woke up. There was an Argentinean feller that sat down with me at breakfast. He wanted to play futbol in the U.S. He was already 25. He wanted to go to a top ten soccer school. I kept telling him to look into D2 schools. I don’t think he understood. Damn.
Some Barcelona girls were staying in our room. They gave us their shampoo. The one that didn’t speak English kept smiling and looking at me. She was okay-looking and wanted to chill, but I decided I’d rather look at Dublin.
Explored the city a little more. Bought a new wooly hat. Bus ride to the airport. Plane ride to Girona.
The Barcelona girls waited for the bus to Barcelona with me. We chatted but then the one that didn’t speak English started smoking and got a lot uglier and the bus came and the girls sat down in an empty seat at the front of the bus with an empty seat across from it and then looked at me and looked at the seat and smiled and I smiled and walked to the back of the bus and sat down and read.
Bus ride. Metro ride. Walk. Hola to the senora. Went to bed.
People say that they wouldn’t like to travel alone. But that’s not traveling alone, eh?
Talked to some American kids on the bus to the Girona airport. They were loud, and they were freaked out by my deductive reasoning, that they, too, were going to Dublin. It did not make me proud to be American.
Started a conversation with an American girl on the plane. She was knitting. Ock knits. Ock is way cooler.
Got to the Dublin airport at about one in the mooorning, and decided to spend the night rather than look for a hostel. Ended up chatting for most of the night with a Spanish girl that studied in Belfast. She was headed home for spring break.
Took a bus into Dublin at six-thirty AM. Had a hot chocolate in McDonalds and read the Dublinish paper. The McDonalds had waterless urinals and high-tech hand dryers.
Found my hostel, but it was too early to check-in. Went to the Guinness factory. Met some dude that talked too much and spent too much money on hotels. Then some Italian guys offered me a cigarette and I pretended to smoke it so that I could enjoy some conversation. Do real smokers know when people are pretending to smoke cigarettes? Their most coherent sentence was – We like drink. They were on spring break, too.
Went back to the hostel. Bought a bed from some Nevada kids that booked an extra one on accident. Explored a little. Went to bed. Talked literature with a Slovakian kid in my room. Fell asleep.
Woke up. Met some nice American girls that said I snored. Ate the free breakfast. Off-brand Nutella. Met an Austrian dude that was headed to Belfast. He had room in the car, but he was boring. Made a sack lunch. Had a free walking tour of the city that cost four euros in tips. Explored the city. Checked-in again at the hostel. Met Willy. Talked to Willy. Willy was at least fifty-years-old. He was from Galway and was staying the night in the Dublin hostel after visiting some friends. He hadn’t tried peanut butter before, so I offered him some of mine. I asked – Is it good, Willy? And he said – Oh, ’tis, ’tis. Quite lovely. Willy’s motto was – It’s nice to be nice.
Walked to the docks. Came back. Read. Found the Nevada kids drinking. They offered me a beer, the first of many offered by them and received by me. Went out with the Nevada kids. Danced with a girl from Iowa. Got pizza. Went back to hostel and caked on the American girls that know I snore. Went to bed.
Woke up. Had hangover. Guinness is mean in the morning. It also produces copious rotten egg gas. Ate. Made a sack lunch. Bounced for Cork. It was a long walk to the outskirts of the city of Dublin. Made a sign from a paper bag that I found on the road. It read: Cork. Stood by the highway with my thumb up. Got a lift (“ride” is not to be used in Ireland) to a better spot. Stood. Got a lift with a Pakistani dude to Portlaoise. We talked about war and friendship and whatnot.
It was late. Took a bus to Limerick. Got lost in Limerick. Looked for a hostel in Limerick. Asked for directions at a gas station. Asked for directions at a halfway house. Asked for directions at a college. There are no hostels in Limerick.
Found the Railway Hotel. Met a lady and her daughter. Asked them for directions to a cheaper hotel. They led the way and explained that I should be careful at night in Limerick. She told me that her and her daughter had been living in hotels for the last few weeks because they moved out of the husband’s house. So their hotel judgment was to be trusted. They brought me to the Boutique Hotel. It was more expensive than the Railway Hotel. The concierge told me that the Railway Hotel was where men bring whores. I stayed at the Boutique Hotel. I would have probably gotten lost on the way back to the Railway, and I didn’t have a whore, anyway.
Ate breakfast, full Irish breakfast: over-easy egg, halved tomato, toast with black current jam, brown bread, good bacon, home fries, black pudding and white pudding. Black pudding is sausage with blood in it. Not bad. Explored the city. Took a bus to Cork. Met a nice university student on the bus, ginger. She was an English literature student, and we had a wonderful chat. She let me use her cellphone to call my couchsurfing host in Cork. Then she showed me around a little in Cork.
Met up with Anders, the couchsurfing host. He moved there with his girlfriend, Tineska, from Sweden. They moved to Cork two months ago, and both of them started their first job the day I arrived. We chatted. We met Tineska as she got back from her job. We went to a health food store, then to their apartment, then ate couscous. They’re vegans. Went to bed.
Woke up. Explored the city. Went to Blarney. Kissed stone. Went back and met up with the Swedish couple. We ate spaghetti and went to a pub. Listened to live Irish music. The best part was when the band stopped, not because it was bad but because, in the interludes, old, drunken, Irish men sang slow Celtic songs and the whole bar gets quiet. Went to bed.
Woke up. Bounced for Tulley Cross. Walked to a gas station on the outskirts of the city of Cork. Tineska told me that hitchhiking works better if you ask for lifts at gas stations. It’s true. Got a lift from a Polish dude to Mallow. Forgot my hitchhiking hat in his car. My ears were cold for the rest of the trip.
Got a lift with a private investigator and his son to Limerick. They loved America. The guy gave me a ride because I was American. He even asked me my nationality before he confirmed my seat. He thought I was Canadian, at first. They talked about how much they loved America and how much they hated Ireland. They go to Disney world every year. The PA had tattoos of Disney characters.
Got a lift with some university students to Galway. They dropped me off in a poorly-located location. Walked for an hour before I got to a good hitchhiking spot.
Got a lift to Moycullen from a construction worker.
Got a lift to Clifden from an English lady. It was hailing and no one was at my gas station so I had my thumb up. She pulled over. She was a journalist and a self-professed hippy. She lived and wrote and raised ponies in Connemara (the region that Clifden and Tulley Cross are in). Talking to her was nice. She told me stories about Connemara. And we talked about journalism and how far it has come, how far civilization has come. She’d see something of the modern world and slap me on the shoulder and say things like – Robert, could you explain telephone lines to Henry VIII… or cars to Queen Elizabeth… or the internet? By golly Robert, could you explain the internet?
She talked to me as we entered Connemara. It’s the most beautiful country I’ve ever seen.
Got a ride to Tully Cross from the government appointed physician from Letterfrack. He was headed to Letterfrack but he drove the extra three miles to Tulley Cross anyway. He was very Irish. He was cheery and helpful and told me about all the places where my lads should bring me when I meet them in Tulley Cross. And he pointed out a rainbow to me.
Arrived in Tulley Cross. Portice studies there. It’s a study abroad program through Aquinas. They send a group of students and teachers to this spot in rural Ireland every year to study Irishness.
The town: nine cottages, a bar, a hotel, a church, a few houses, and a closed-down bar. At the hotel, I inquired where the students live. They live in the cottages. The students were in class. I found Ellen and Molly, two Aquinas people not in class. Chilled with them. Met with Portice. Ate. Watched a movie. Went to bed.
The following days were what made Ireland wonderful for me. The snowy mountains outside the kitchen window, the lakes, the friendliness, the tacos, the Irish air, the sheep, the weather, the broken cottage heater, the long walks to the grocery store, the garlic cheese fries, the peat. The simplicity. The following days:
Woke up. Ate. Went to the beach. Came back. Did stuff. Went to pub. Drank Guinness. Came back. Went to bed.
Woke up. Went to Kylemore Abby. Walked back. Made dinner: spaghetti with tomato sauce that looked like garbage but tasked like tomato sauce. Ate. Went to Irish house party. Drank Bulmers, hard cider. Met some Irishmen. Watched an Irish comedian on TV. Went to bed.
Woke up. Played cards. Ate. Went to futbol game. Drank cider. Went to disco. Danced. Drank Guinness. Undrank Guinnness. Chilled. Almost didn’t go to bed to climb a hill with some crazies to watch the sunrise. Went to bed.
That was all I needed. Connemara is where it’s at.
Woke up. Happy Easter. Got a lift to Clifden from the parents of an Aquinas student. Megan, an Aquinas student, was my travel companion. We got a lift to Galway from a nice Polish couple. The two of us went to McDonalds to eat Cadbury crème egg McFlurries. Ate one and a half more to see if I liked em. I did. We chilled and then went to a hostel and then Megan left for Dublin.
Woke up. Explored city. Met with Emily, another Aquinas student that was headed the same direction that I was headed. We took a bus to Dublin then watched Kick Ass then went to a pub then went to bed.
Woke up. There was an Argentinean feller that sat down with me at breakfast. He wanted to play futbol in the U.S. He was already 25. He wanted to go to a top ten soccer school. I kept telling him to look into D2 schools. I don’t think he understood. Damn.
Some Barcelona girls were staying in our room. They gave us their shampoo. The one that didn’t speak English kept smiling and looking at me. She was okay-looking and wanted to chill, but I decided I’d rather look at Dublin.
Explored the city a little more. Bought a new wooly hat. Bus ride to the airport. Plane ride to Girona.
The Barcelona girls waited for the bus to Barcelona with me. We chatted but then the one that didn’t speak English started smoking and got a lot uglier and the bus came and the girls sat down in an empty seat at the front of the bus with an empty seat across from it and then looked at me and looked at the seat and smiled and I smiled and walked to the back of the bus and sat down and read.
Bus ride. Metro ride. Walk. Hola to the senora. Went to bed.
People say that they wouldn’t like to travel alone. But that’s not traveling alone, eh?
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Esmeraldo el Relector de EspArrago
I haven’t done anything overtly groundbreaking this week… or last week. It’s that crunch time in school before spring break.
My art class went to Sagrada Familia. It’s a big Gaudi church that was started more than 100 years ago. It’s projected to be finished in 2030. The outside is nice on two sides, and the inside isn’t finished. The whole project reminds me of a large scale 649 Bingham. It’ll be nice when it’s done.
My art class, also, went to the Joan MirO Museum, Fundacio Joan MirO. He was into minimalism. He also liked the idea of painting for the sake of painting, because it’s fun. He had a fly beard.
Last weekend, I decided to walk to Parc Guell to do my homework. So I got lost. But I discovered the biggest escalator that I’ve seen, yet. It led to some sort of hospital, a crazy person hospital I surmised. That’s where I ate my lunch.
I, eventually, ascertained my whereabouts and began walking in the direction of my destination. I, accidentally, arrived in the park to the north of my destination. It’s easy to get mixed up because they put all their parks on top of hills. You can’t see ’em until you climb the hill. Also, I’m horrible with directions.
This is how I discovered where the gypsies live, the other side of the hill. They have a lot of dogs. But I avoided the neighborhood.
I chatted with an elderly gypsy man that was picking wild asparagus. He sat down and smoked a pipe, and I ate a lollipop that my senora gave me for Tres Reyes. It was a smiley face Christmas tree with M&M’s for bulbs. We chilled, and he explained all the different things that you can pick around the city. At least, that’s what I figured he was saying. He was speaking in Catalan.
After some time, I said good-bye and headed for Parc Guell which I could see from my vantage point on the ground in the Gypsy park.
That’s it for the weekend. But for a different topic…
I brought a couple packages of razors with me to Barcelona to do my shaving, Wal-Mart razors. I forgot my good razor thing at Hope. Wal-Mart razors really portray my true shaving ability. So, every so often, for the first month or so, I’d come to class with my faced chopped to hell. Hence, I stopped shaving for 43 days. I could almost hide things in my beard.
The other day I got ‘er cut by an Argentinean barber. He cut my hair, too. And he washed my hair. What service! I couldn't help chuckle while he washed my hair because I don't, often, have other people wash my hair. The chuckling probably made it weird for both of us.
He thought I was German because I refused to respond to him in English.
My art class went to Sagrada Familia. It’s a big Gaudi church that was started more than 100 years ago. It’s projected to be finished in 2030. The outside is nice on two sides, and the inside isn’t finished. The whole project reminds me of a large scale 649 Bingham. It’ll be nice when it’s done.
My art class, also, went to the Joan MirO Museum, Fundacio Joan MirO. He was into minimalism. He also liked the idea of painting for the sake of painting, because it’s fun. He had a fly beard.
Last weekend, I decided to walk to Parc Guell to do my homework. So I got lost. But I discovered the biggest escalator that I’ve seen, yet. It led to some sort of hospital, a crazy person hospital I surmised. That’s where I ate my lunch.
I, eventually, ascertained my whereabouts and began walking in the direction of my destination. I, accidentally, arrived in the park to the north of my destination. It’s easy to get mixed up because they put all their parks on top of hills. You can’t see ’em until you climb the hill. Also, I’m horrible with directions.
This is how I discovered where the gypsies live, the other side of the hill. They have a lot of dogs. But I avoided the neighborhood.
I chatted with an elderly gypsy man that was picking wild asparagus. He sat down and smoked a pipe, and I ate a lollipop that my senora gave me for Tres Reyes. It was a smiley face Christmas tree with M&M’s for bulbs. We chilled, and he explained all the different things that you can pick around the city. At least, that’s what I figured he was saying. He was speaking in Catalan.
After some time, I said good-bye and headed for Parc Guell which I could see from my vantage point on the ground in the Gypsy park.
That’s it for the weekend. But for a different topic…
I brought a couple packages of razors with me to Barcelona to do my shaving, Wal-Mart razors. I forgot my good razor thing at Hope. Wal-Mart razors really portray my true shaving ability. So, every so often, for the first month or so, I’d come to class with my faced chopped to hell. Hence, I stopped shaving for 43 days. I could almost hide things in my beard.
The other day I got ‘er cut by an Argentinean barber. He cut my hair, too. And he washed my hair. What service! I couldn't help chuckle while he washed my hair because I don't, often, have other people wash my hair. The chuckling probably made it weird for both of us.
He thought I was German because I refused to respond to him in English.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Es no moco de pavo
Big week. Portice of Pickford and her friend came to Barcelona for three days. I had the privilege to show them around. It’s nice to see someone from home. I can throw out jokes about ice fishing, the I-500, and other Yooper business.
Portice’s friend, Adri, is from Bay City, so we had the opportunity to talk about how much we love and long for some Uno’s. (I’m sure it would keep in an envelope.)
Also, I went inside one of Gaudi’s houses, La Pedrera, on an Art field trip. Its real name is La Casa Milla. It got its nickname (the stone quarry) because the consensus from the average Barcelonese joe was that the apartment building was pretty home-ly. I agree, at least, relative to his other casas.
Modernisme is the Catalan architectural movement in which Gaudi worked his magic. The movement was inspired by nature. The outside of La Pedrera looks like waves, and the gate bars look like octopus arms. The top of the building looks like Luke Skywalker’s childhood neighborhood. La Pedrera is where George got his inspiration for that particular setting.
With another class, I took a field trip to the world headquarters of Mango to learn about the clothes binness. That was awesome. The tour was okay, but we got little sandwiches at the end which was great news. My senora didn’t pack me a lunch that day.
Took some exams in the Spanish language. That was something. Then, I bounced over to Germany for the weekend. That was glorious.
My sister picked me up from the airport. We went for a tour in the town of Speyer. They have a big church, imagine that. It’s famous, though. They’ve got some kings buried in there.
Germany’s weather was like springtime for H olland.
Saturday, I went to my sister’s away game in the city of Maisomethingsomething. Watching my sister hoop has become more and more enjoyable. I’ve been spectating my sisters’ basketball games since I was five. Well, I’ve been in gyms since then. The first couple of years I chased bouncy balls, read Hardy Boys’s books, and played Kirby’s Dreamland.
This occasion was especially dope because I haven’t been able to watch her for a good two years. I was in the rowdy section, too. Her team, the Towers, has a family of superfans that follow them around. That family hooked me up with a Bitburger (no, it’s a beer) and the rowdy section t-shirt that read: The Speyer Tower’s BIGGEST Fans.
So with a beer in one hand and a camera in the other I set out to make the Guimond family’s (and Grandma’s) presence known by shouting, picture taking, and sliding up and down the bleachers.
“Get your arms up.”
“Watch ‘em. Watch ‘em girls.”
“Bend your knees Guimond.” And all that.
The first half was damn exciting…
That night, we chilled with some Germans. We didn’t have any playing cards, so they made some out of my Weizen Pops cereal box. I will bring that idea with me to the New World.
I ate some wienershnitzel and sauerbraten. Wienershnitzel is like chickenfried pork. I thought sauerbraten was some business cooked up in the stomach of a pig, but I just looked it up on Wikipedia and it doesn’t mention anything about stomachs. As of right now, I’m unsure what I ate.
I was scheduled to fly out on Monday at noon thirty. My ride was late picking me up. I arrived to the airport with only a half an hour before my flight. But, luckily! my flight was delayed three hours.
After the three hour delay, everyone on the plane collectively decided not to take off for another two hours because we wanted more time to read.
The weather was something awful in Gerona… Spain standards. I didn’t find out until I watched the news with my senora that night, but it snowed in Gerona and Barcelona. That hasn’t happened in either place in thirty years or something. Exciting, eh? Thank goodness I’m in Barcelona to appreciate such an historic event. Snow.
Almost half of the people from the plane decided that they didn’t really feel like reading, so they stayed in Germany. That opened up a whole row of seats for me. I got to read lying down.
While I read the Poisonwood Bible, a lady came up to me and decided to talk to me about Jesus. She was a Russian, fluent in her home language, German, Spanish, and she got by in English. I soon found out that she was Russian Luna Lovegood. They have the same eyes.
She told me about how Jesus came from a tribe of aliens that built the great pyramids. The bloodline still exists, and Rockefeller was one of them. I had better change my money into euros because the U.S. is going to join the European Union due to some moneymaking conspiracy resulting from that alien bloodline. We discussed wholesome stuff like that. I got her email if you want it.
Gerona airport closed. They told us we’d land at Reus, then they’d bus us to Gerona. I was fine with it because I had plenty of book left. But Reus closed, and we landed in Barcelona. There was cheering when the pilot announced that news. It didn’t really shave off much of my journey time, though. We had to wait two hours for one of those giant rolling staircases which were in high demand because the airport was invaded with Geronanese and Reussian planes.
I could have used a couple more hours to finish my book, but I did get home before my senora put away the pasta.
Portice’s friend, Adri, is from Bay City, so we had the opportunity to talk about how much we love and long for some Uno’s. (I’m sure it would keep in an envelope.)
Also, I went inside one of Gaudi’s houses, La Pedrera, on an Art field trip. Its real name is La Casa Milla. It got its nickname (the stone quarry) because the consensus from the average Barcelonese joe was that the apartment building was pretty home-ly. I agree, at least, relative to his other casas.
Modernisme is the Catalan architectural movement in which Gaudi worked his magic. The movement was inspired by nature. The outside of La Pedrera looks like waves, and the gate bars look like octopus arms. The top of the building looks like Luke Skywalker’s childhood neighborhood. La Pedrera is where George got his inspiration for that particular setting.
With another class, I took a field trip to the world headquarters of Mango to learn about the clothes binness. That was awesome. The tour was okay, but we got little sandwiches at the end which was great news. My senora didn’t pack me a lunch that day.
Took some exams in the Spanish language. That was something. Then, I bounced over to Germany for the weekend. That was glorious.
My sister picked me up from the airport. We went for a tour in the town of Speyer. They have a big church, imagine that. It’s famous, though. They’ve got some kings buried in there.
Germany’s weather was like springtime for H olland.
Saturday, I went to my sister’s away game in the city of Maisomethingsomething. Watching my sister hoop has become more and more enjoyable. I’ve been spectating my sisters’ basketball games since I was five. Well, I’ve been in gyms since then. The first couple of years I chased bouncy balls, read Hardy Boys’s books, and played Kirby’s Dreamland.
This occasion was especially dope because I haven’t been able to watch her for a good two years. I was in the rowdy section, too. Her team, the Towers, has a family of superfans that follow them around. That family hooked me up with a Bitburger (no, it’s a beer) and the rowdy section t-shirt that read: The Speyer Tower’s BIGGEST Fans.
So with a beer in one hand and a camera in the other I set out to make the Guimond family’s (and Grandma’s) presence known by shouting, picture taking, and sliding up and down the bleachers.
“Get your arms up.”
“Watch ‘em. Watch ‘em girls.”
“Bend your knees Guimond.” And all that.
The first half was damn exciting…
That night, we chilled with some Germans. We didn’t have any playing cards, so they made some out of my Weizen Pops cereal box. I will bring that idea with me to the New World.
I ate some wienershnitzel and sauerbraten. Wienershnitzel is like chickenfried pork. I thought sauerbraten was some business cooked up in the stomach of a pig, but I just looked it up on Wikipedia and it doesn’t mention anything about stomachs. As of right now, I’m unsure what I ate.
I was scheduled to fly out on Monday at noon thirty. My ride was late picking me up. I arrived to the airport with only a half an hour before my flight. But, luckily! my flight was delayed three hours.
After the three hour delay, everyone on the plane collectively decided not to take off for another two hours because we wanted more time to read.
The weather was something awful in Gerona… Spain standards. I didn’t find out until I watched the news with my senora that night, but it snowed in Gerona and Barcelona. That hasn’t happened in either place in thirty years or something. Exciting, eh? Thank goodness I’m in Barcelona to appreciate such an historic event. Snow.
Almost half of the people from the plane decided that they didn’t really feel like reading, so they stayed in Germany. That opened up a whole row of seats for me. I got to read lying down.
While I read the Poisonwood Bible, a lady came up to me and decided to talk to me about Jesus. She was a Russian, fluent in her home language, German, Spanish, and she got by in English. I soon found out that she was Russian Luna Lovegood. They have the same eyes.
She told me about how Jesus came from a tribe of aliens that built the great pyramids. The bloodline still exists, and Rockefeller was one of them. I had better change my money into euros because the U.S. is going to join the European Union due to some moneymaking conspiracy resulting from that alien bloodline. We discussed wholesome stuff like that. I got her email if you want it.
Gerona airport closed. They told us we’d land at Reus, then they’d bus us to Gerona. I was fine with it because I had plenty of book left. But Reus closed, and we landed in Barcelona. There was cheering when the pilot announced that news. It didn’t really shave off much of my journey time, though. We had to wait two hours for one of those giant rolling staircases which were in high demand because the airport was invaded with Geronanese and Reussian planes.
I could have used a couple more hours to finish my book, but I did get home before my senora put away the pasta.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
I had some tomato marmalade for brekkers. It didn’t quite hit the spot. Maybe, it’d be good on some hot biscuits or something.
Well, I went to Girona and Figueres this weekend. In Girona, I saw a church with the biggest nave in Europe. Holy smokes, do I like a good nave. I didn’t see the nave, though, because of the entry fee. We can imagine it though. BIG NAVE. Props to that particular nave builder. You gotta respect someone that has that kind of nave- building talent.
I have a bunch of crumbs in my keyboard from eating Spanish cookies and writing about naves.
Figueres has the Dali museum. He does some mean art. I’ve never enjoyed a museum more, that includes every museum I’ve visited... River of History, Bushplane, what have you.
Dali built his museum in Figueres. That’s foresight. Not only did he build it himself, but he also predicted that it would make bank. It does. It’s the third most visited museum in Spain, er something.
In the museum, he’s got this Cadillac, among other things, that rains on the inside and a big picture of his babe, Gala, that turns into Abe Lincoln if you look at it right. Dali was really in love with Gala. She’s all over the place in the museum. They aren’t buried together, though. Dali is in the museum (mummified and buried like a pharaoh (with money and fanciness around him)), and Gala is buried near her castle, I think.
My senora said that all the best Dali stuff is in New York. There’s a museum in St. Petersberg, Florida, too. So stop by if you’re in the neighborhood.
In other news, I spent three and a half euros to go to the Center of Contemporary Culture in Barcelona for extra credit in art history class. It explained the dope-nocity of Barcelona’s city design. Most of it was in Catalan. Pretty lame. The best part was the giant escalator that brought me to the exhibition.
I have mid-terms next week. Vamos a ver.
Well, I went to Girona and Figueres this weekend. In Girona, I saw a church with the biggest nave in Europe. Holy smokes, do I like a good nave. I didn’t see the nave, though, because of the entry fee. We can imagine it though. BIG NAVE. Props to that particular nave builder. You gotta respect someone that has that kind of nave- building talent.
I have a bunch of crumbs in my keyboard from eating Spanish cookies and writing about naves.
Figueres has the Dali museum. He does some mean art. I’ve never enjoyed a museum more, that includes every museum I’ve visited... River of History, Bushplane, what have you.
Dali built his museum in Figueres. That’s foresight. Not only did he build it himself, but he also predicted that it would make bank. It does. It’s the third most visited museum in Spain, er something.
In the museum, he’s got this Cadillac, among other things, that rains on the inside and a big picture of his babe, Gala, that turns into Abe Lincoln if you look at it right. Dali was really in love with Gala. She’s all over the place in the museum. They aren’t buried together, though. Dali is in the museum (mummified and buried like a pharaoh (with money and fanciness around him)), and Gala is buried near her castle, I think.
My senora said that all the best Dali stuff is in New York. There’s a museum in St. Petersberg, Florida, too. So stop by if you’re in the neighborhood.
In other news, I spent three and a half euros to go to the Center of Contemporary Culture in Barcelona for extra credit in art history class. It explained the dope-nocity of Barcelona’s city design. Most of it was in Catalan. Pretty lame. The best part was the giant escalator that brought me to the exhibition.
I have mid-terms next week. Vamos a ver.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Drink-ing root-beer in SEVILLE (sing that in your head)
I got to do that dash-down-into-the-metro-and-stick-your-arm-into-the-train-to-stop-the-doors-from-closing thing this weekend. I had a plane to catch. I always laugh at the people who force their way onto the train then look like they just won a gold medal. But I did feel surprisingly accomplished after I caught that sucker, Kentucky Derby if not gold medal.
This weekend was the program trip to Seville. After the train to terminal 1 and the bus from terminal 1 to 2, I rolled up to security check and felt kinda tingly. Last time I had been in that airport was two months ago. I remembered how nervous and damn confused I was when I got to the airport. I remembered how I had to buy a bag of Mars bars with a benjamin in order to get my change back in euros because none the banks were open on New Year’s to change my money.
Well, this airport visit was different. I had euros, a chorizo sandwich, and a new coat.
I’ve learned that Vueling issues very little space to they’re passengers, which is important to know if you’re not as petite as me.
Seville gets down. We went on a tour of the Seville Catedral right when we got there. It used to be a mosque, and then the Catholics took over and turned it into a church.
Then we ate some tapas which is supposed to be so tasty in Sevilla. The best thing I had was fried eggplant with honey. I tried some unusual stuff like quail eggs, bull tail, blood rice, and dog fish. All tasty.
That night, we watched Flamenco dancing. Bueno. The woman danced, then the man danced, then they danced together. There was also a singing solo and a guitar solo. The best part was, when the dude was dancing, the singer kept yelling at him to do more stuff. Then the dancer kept telling the singer to change the song. They were laughing and giving each other a hard time and it was entertaining.
Saturday, we went to the city of Cordoba. They have the Mezquita, a huge mosque with a church inside. I guess its top twenty five on the top 1000 things to see before you die.
The tour guide told us that, back in the day, Muslims were good at building, Jewish people were good with precious metals, and Christians were good at conquering. So they all had to work together to make a church. Think about that.
The night time was the right time to go out for most people. We didn’t have anything to do early the next morning so most people planned to 1) botellon, or drink and hang out down by the river where hundreds of people go every night, and then 2) go to some Buddha club or something.
I planned to drink a little down by the river then go back to the room and read some Maya Angelou. We went to the the nearest grocery store, a little Russian tienda down the street.
Turns out, I bought a big bottle of Russian root beer instead of beer. This is good because I was really jonesin’ for some root beer. No joke. Also, it rained; therefore, no one was at the botellon except for Americans desperate to botellon. I quickly bounced. Root beer and reading, it was a memorable night.
The next day, we went to the Alcazar, the palace in Sevilla. (Sevilla has palaces and churches and business because it’s location was ideal for trading with the Americas. So it got exclusive Spanish trading rights. It made bank.) I wouldn’t want to live in the palace. It’s not close enough to the metro.
Sevilla is beautiful and peaceful. I would go there again.
This weekend was the program trip to Seville. After the train to terminal 1 and the bus from terminal 1 to 2, I rolled up to security check and felt kinda tingly. Last time I had been in that airport was two months ago. I remembered how nervous and damn confused I was when I got to the airport. I remembered how I had to buy a bag of Mars bars with a benjamin in order to get my change back in euros because none the banks were open on New Year’s to change my money.
Well, this airport visit was different. I had euros, a chorizo sandwich, and a new coat.
I’ve learned that Vueling issues very little space to they’re passengers, which is important to know if you’re not as petite as me.
Seville gets down. We went on a tour of the Seville Catedral right when we got there. It used to be a mosque, and then the Catholics took over and turned it into a church.
Then we ate some tapas which is supposed to be so tasty in Sevilla. The best thing I had was fried eggplant with honey. I tried some unusual stuff like quail eggs, bull tail, blood rice, and dog fish. All tasty.
That night, we watched Flamenco dancing. Bueno. The woman danced, then the man danced, then they danced together. There was also a singing solo and a guitar solo. The best part was, when the dude was dancing, the singer kept yelling at him to do more stuff. Then the dancer kept telling the singer to change the song. They were laughing and giving each other a hard time and it was entertaining.
Saturday, we went to the city of Cordoba. They have the Mezquita, a huge mosque with a church inside. I guess its top twenty five on the top 1000 things to see before you die.
The tour guide told us that, back in the day, Muslims were good at building, Jewish people were good with precious metals, and Christians were good at conquering. So they all had to work together to make a church. Think about that.
The night time was the right time to go out for most people. We didn’t have anything to do early the next morning so most people planned to 1) botellon, or drink and hang out down by the river where hundreds of people go every night, and then 2) go to some Buddha club or something.
I planned to drink a little down by the river then go back to the room and read some Maya Angelou. We went to the the nearest grocery store, a little Russian tienda down the street.
Turns out, I bought a big bottle of Russian root beer instead of beer. This is good because I was really jonesin’ for some root beer. No joke. Also, it rained; therefore, no one was at the botellon except for Americans desperate to botellon. I quickly bounced. Root beer and reading, it was a memorable night.
The next day, we went to the Alcazar, the palace in Sevilla. (Sevilla has palaces and churches and business because it’s location was ideal for trading with the Americas. So it got exclusive Spanish trading rights. It made bank.) I wouldn’t want to live in the palace. It’s not close enough to the metro.
Sevilla is beautiful and peaceful. I would go there again.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Plague of Lobsters
Spaniards have parades all the time, holidays too. Spain’s got more official holidays than any other country. Friday was the feast day for Saint Eulalia, one of the patron saints of Barcelona. There were festivites, but I didn’t go to them. I chilled. Saturday, there were more festivities. I went to those.
I met up with a classmate around six-thirty. We were supposed to meet up with his friends. We waited a good forty-five minutes for them. While waiting, the two of us hung out at the main metro station and listened to some live Spanish music. We watched the winos dance with themselves and the old men try to dance with anyone that would dance. There were some old couples dancing. And it was beautiful. The friends came, so we went to Fontana de Magica.
Fontana de Magica (magic fountain) is a huge fountain in front of the Catalunya Art Museum (the building in my FB display picture). It’s like the fountain in the Soo, only five or six times bigger. It lights up and music plays and water sprays synchronized with the music.
I imagine that love birds probably go to the fountain on Saturday nights to re-enact the Boy Meets World "Disney World" episode, that one where Cory and Topenga get back together and smooch in front of the big fountain with fireworks shooting in the background. (Now, I feel like Stuie had something in his blog about Cory and Topenga. Well, either way, shout out to Ruben.)
This was the first show of the season. It was cold, damn cold. And raining. But I couldn’t have asked for a better cold, rainy night.
On a side note: I read about a “plaga de langostas” the other day, a plague of lobsters. Which isn’t really a plague is it? It’s more like a big cookout. But I guess “langosta” is “lobster” and “locust.” So… keep that in mind.
After the fountain, we headed out to watch the parade. We had much hunger and stopped at a Doner Kebab. Doner Kebab’s are all over the place here. They sell Kebab’s, among other things. They’re a good substitute for Taco Bell. I ate a kebab and had a beer and I was happy.
By the time we got to the parade, it was pouring. It was a parade for Carnival, I guess. Everyone was dressed up and dancing in the rain. It was a glorious feeling. And I was happy again.
We bounced and headed for a local concert. It took us a long time to get on a train because everyone goes in the metro when It rains on their parade.
I asked a guy dressed like Beatlejuice where the concert was located. His girlfriend, Cruella Deville, told us. We followed her directions and soon became lost. CRUUUEEELLAAAAA. We went to a bar.
Turns out, the bar was real funky. We found Waldo, and he was playing the guitar, some mean Flamenco. We also found a cross-dressing flamenco dancer. GOOD night.
Sunday, was Correfoc in front of the Cathedral of Saint Eulalia. It was a parade where people dress like devils and dance around with massive sparklers. Drums play lively Carnival-y type music, and everyone gets down.
The children begin the event. They’re real little. Roc, my Senora’s grandkid, started when he was three. They wear fire resistant costumes and little goggles and wander all over the place holding sparklers twice their size. After, fireworks are shot in the air. Then, the adults do the sparkler dance. The sparkler dance is kind of like the Guimond shake-down, only throw some fire-resistant clothing, gogs, and a sparkler in there.
I met up with a classmate around six-thirty. We were supposed to meet up with his friends. We waited a good forty-five minutes for them. While waiting, the two of us hung out at the main metro station and listened to some live Spanish music. We watched the winos dance with themselves and the old men try to dance with anyone that would dance. There were some old couples dancing. And it was beautiful. The friends came, so we went to Fontana de Magica.
Fontana de Magica (magic fountain) is a huge fountain in front of the Catalunya Art Museum (the building in my FB display picture). It’s like the fountain in the Soo, only five or six times bigger. It lights up and music plays and water sprays synchronized with the music.
I imagine that love birds probably go to the fountain on Saturday nights to re-enact the Boy Meets World "Disney World" episode, that one where Cory and Topenga get back together and smooch in front of the big fountain with fireworks shooting in the background. (Now, I feel like Stuie had something in his blog about Cory and Topenga. Well, either way, shout out to Ruben.)
This was the first show of the season. It was cold, damn cold. And raining. But I couldn’t have asked for a better cold, rainy night.
On a side note: I read about a “plaga de langostas” the other day, a plague of lobsters. Which isn’t really a plague is it? It’s more like a big cookout. But I guess “langosta” is “lobster” and “locust.” So… keep that in mind.
After the fountain, we headed out to watch the parade. We had much hunger and stopped at a Doner Kebab. Doner Kebab’s are all over the place here. They sell Kebab’s, among other things. They’re a good substitute for Taco Bell. I ate a kebab and had a beer and I was happy.
By the time we got to the parade, it was pouring. It was a parade for Carnival, I guess. Everyone was dressed up and dancing in the rain. It was a glorious feeling. And I was happy again.
We bounced and headed for a local concert. It took us a long time to get on a train because everyone goes in the metro when It rains on their parade.
I asked a guy dressed like Beatlejuice where the concert was located. His girlfriend, Cruella Deville, told us. We followed her directions and soon became lost. CRUUUEEELLAAAAA. We went to a bar.
Turns out, the bar was real funky. We found Waldo, and he was playing the guitar, some mean Flamenco. We also found a cross-dressing flamenco dancer. GOOD night.
Sunday, was Correfoc in front of the Cathedral of Saint Eulalia. It was a parade where people dress like devils and dance around with massive sparklers. Drums play lively Carnival-y type music, and everyone gets down.
The children begin the event. They’re real little. Roc, my Senora’s grandkid, started when he was three. They wear fire resistant costumes and little goggles and wander all over the place holding sparklers twice their size. After, fireworks are shot in the air. Then, the adults do the sparkler dance. The sparkler dance is kind of like the Guimond shake-down, only throw some fire-resistant clothing, gogs, and a sparkler in there.
Friday, February 12, 2010
I'm just mad about saffron
All the museums are free on the first Sunday of the month. Well, the chocolate museum isn’t free, which is silly. I mean, why would someone pay to look at chocolate? I would rather buy a Hershey’s bar and look at it real hard, then eat it.
I went to the Museum of PreColombian Art, or something. I saw some bowls and stuff that the conquistadors probably ate cocoa puffs from while they conquered shit.
I went to the Picasso Museum. I learned a thing or two about Picasso. I guess he was really in to Asian sex art, but I forget the name of the style. Googling “Asian sex art” has failed me.
I went to Caixa Forum, a photography gallery. I’ve never been to a photography gallery. Now, I know what kind of photos can make it into a gallery. In one of the classier sections, they had a five minute movie playing on repeat. It showed a human with duct tape completely covering his/her head. Parking cones were duct taped to the person head, as well. In the film, the person was spinning in a chair and was being pelted with colorful ice cream or paint or food from Never Never Land; I wasn’t sure which.
And now, I’m going to talk about food. Finally, right?
I signed up for this “Cook and Taste” class. It was just a onetime deal. Fifteen students showed up to be instructed by a Spanish chef. We made gazpacho, tortilla de patata (potato omellete), paella, and crema de Catalunia (pudding). It was fancy. We used cheese I’ve never heard of and torches and whatnot. The most exciting part: we got to use saffron. Ounce for ounce saffron is like gold. Expensive. But it’s edible and less worthless.
After the class, I hooped. Usually I hoop on Fridays, the scheduled exercise day for the CIEE program. The guy who runs the open gym, Lukas, asked me if I wanted to practice with his team. So I did. His team is like the fifth league or something. It’s decent basketball. It’s probably comparable to the Hope JV, only older and more European. They called many fouls and limped around for ten to fifteen minutes if someone stepped on their shoelace.
It’s a good time. I’ll play with them every Tuesday and Thursday.
I went to the Museum of PreColombian Art, or something. I saw some bowls and stuff that the conquistadors probably ate cocoa puffs from while they conquered shit.
I went to the Picasso Museum. I learned a thing or two about Picasso. I guess he was really in to Asian sex art, but I forget the name of the style. Googling “Asian sex art” has failed me.
I went to Caixa Forum, a photography gallery. I’ve never been to a photography gallery. Now, I know what kind of photos can make it into a gallery. In one of the classier sections, they had a five minute movie playing on repeat. It showed a human with duct tape completely covering his/her head. Parking cones were duct taped to the person head, as well. In the film, the person was spinning in a chair and was being pelted with colorful ice cream or paint or food from Never Never Land; I wasn’t sure which.
And now, I’m going to talk about food. Finally, right?
I signed up for this “Cook and Taste” class. It was just a onetime deal. Fifteen students showed up to be instructed by a Spanish chef. We made gazpacho, tortilla de patata (potato omellete), paella, and crema de Catalunia (pudding). It was fancy. We used cheese I’ve never heard of and torches and whatnot. The most exciting part: we got to use saffron. Ounce for ounce saffron is like gold. Expensive. But it’s edible and less worthless.
After the class, I hooped. Usually I hoop on Fridays, the scheduled exercise day for the CIEE program. The guy who runs the open gym, Lukas, asked me if I wanted to practice with his team. So I did. His team is like the fifth league or something. It’s decent basketball. It’s probably comparable to the Hope JV, only older and more European. They called many fouls and limped around for ten to fifteen minutes if someone stepped on their shoelace.
It’s a good time. I’ll play with them every Tuesday and Thursday.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Ombligo
My History of Catalonia Art class went to the National Art Museum the other day. I saw art, Picasso, Dali. I could spend days in art museums. They have good vibes. They also smell nice.
Once, when I was in the Catalonia Art Museum in London, I saw two love birds smooching in front of some historically significant painting. That’s probably what the artist would have wanted. Gaudi had a bench in the Catalonia Art Museum. But people were not permitted to sit in it. That would probably piss Gaudi off.
We're going many other places in that class. I'll keep you posted.
I don’t understand that much in my art class or in my marketing class or my Spanish class. They're all in Spanish. That’s what you want, though. Practice, practice. I even got a tutor for Spanish. I’m going all out, SON.
Today, I learned that a cooking pot is “olla.” That’s important for making no-bakes.
Break...
I went to Portugal last weekend, the land of many Portuguese people. I visted Ze. I got there Friday morning, so he had to go to school after he picked me up from the airport. I spent the morning with his dad. I think his dad is seventy something.
We went to a café and looked at Portuguese newspapers for a couple of hours. We had a good time shooting the shit. He explained various things to me in Portuguese. And I said various things to him like, “Oh” “Muy bonita” “Bien” “Si” “No”. I feel like we connected.
We got home, and he played something for me on the record player. I fell asleep.
That evening, Ze and I went to Viana do Castelo. We ate this egg sweet cream that I will try to duplicate when I return to the Soo. Yass. Yass. After, I had the opportunity to hoop at Ze’s practice. Eurostep.
Saturday, Ze had a game in Porto. That was something. His coach is clearly in the wrong profession, but he gave me a sandwich and a juice after the game. So he’s okay in my book. We stayed in Porto to go to the bar with Ze’s friends. Then, we slept in the car so that we could explore the city the next day. THEN, the next day, we explored the city.
Monday was chill. I cooked for the fam. We had sloppy joes and nobakes made with Nutella. Ze’s mom made chocolate mousse. And we fell in love.
At some point during that trip, I ate Francesinha, little French girl. Imagine a piece of bread covered with sausage, cheese, ham, steak, a fried egg, and beer sauce surrounded by French fries. Yep, a little French girl is the first thing that comes to my mind, too.
I sat on a bench and read a book next to Arc de Triumph, today. That’s a big arc thing. This dude came up to me and asked me if I had any music he could listen to while he smoked a spliff. I didn’t have any music. It was a sad moment for both of us.
Once, when I was in the Catalonia Art Museum in London, I saw two love birds smooching in front of some historically significant painting. That’s probably what the artist would have wanted. Gaudi had a bench in the Catalonia Art Museum. But people were not permitted to sit in it. That would probably piss Gaudi off.
We're going many other places in that class. I'll keep you posted.
I don’t understand that much in my art class or in my marketing class or my Spanish class. They're all in Spanish. That’s what you want, though. Practice, practice. I even got a tutor for Spanish. I’m going all out, SON.
Today, I learned that a cooking pot is “olla.” That’s important for making no-bakes.
Break...
I went to Portugal last weekend, the land of many Portuguese people. I visted Ze. I got there Friday morning, so he had to go to school after he picked me up from the airport. I spent the morning with his dad. I think his dad is seventy something.
We went to a café and looked at Portuguese newspapers for a couple of hours. We had a good time shooting the shit. He explained various things to me in Portuguese. And I said various things to him like, “Oh” “Muy bonita” “Bien” “Si” “No”. I feel like we connected.
We got home, and he played something for me on the record player. I fell asleep.
That evening, Ze and I went to Viana do Castelo. We ate this egg sweet cream that I will try to duplicate when I return to the Soo. Yass. Yass. After, I had the opportunity to hoop at Ze’s practice. Eurostep.
Saturday, Ze had a game in Porto. That was something. His coach is clearly in the wrong profession, but he gave me a sandwich and a juice after the game. So he’s okay in my book. We stayed in Porto to go to the bar with Ze’s friends. Then, we slept in the car so that we could explore the city the next day. THEN, the next day, we explored the city.
Monday was chill. I cooked for the fam. We had sloppy joes and nobakes made with Nutella. Ze’s mom made chocolate mousse. And we fell in love.
At some point during that trip, I ate Francesinha, little French girl. Imagine a piece of bread covered with sausage, cheese, ham, steak, a fried egg, and beer sauce surrounded by French fries. Yep, a little French girl is the first thing that comes to my mind, too.
I sat on a bench and read a book next to Arc de Triumph, today. That’s a big arc thing. This dude came up to me and asked me if I had any music he could listen to while he smoked a spliff. I didn’t have any music. It was a sad moment for both of us.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Eviiiiiiiita Eviiiiiiiita
Saturday, we had a program activity. We went for a lovely walk up the mountain, Tibidabo. There’s an amusement park up there, but that’s not why we went. We went for the food.
Calcots are mild green onions that look like leeks. I’m fairly confident that they only grow in Catalunya, the region of Spain in which I am currently getting funky. They’re harvested in the winter. I heard the story that a calcot famer accidentally dropped one of his giant onions into the fire. Being a frugal man, he pulled that sucker out, peeled off the charred layer, and ate the good stuff. Shortly thereafter, he was known as a culinary genius for creating the calcotada.
A calcotada is grilled onion, and it’s, also, the whole oniongrilling-winedrinking-bibwearing event. That’s why we climbed the mountain. Yass. We wore bibs. First, they gave us grilled bread. We rubbed tomatoes and garlic on it and poured olive oil on it. Second, we had calcotadas. You peel the charred layer off, dip the onion in some romesco sauce, tilt your head back, and drop the onion in your mouth. Third, they gave us salad and olives and roasted red pepper. Fourth, we had grilled ribs and sausage with a garbanzo bean dish and french fries. Fifth, they served some cream puffs with chocolate sauce. The next Evening with Rob and Jay will be a calcotada event.
We also drank wine from a porron. It’s like a community water bottle. You just grab it and pour some in your mouth. That thing on Mrs. Hellstrom’s desk wasn’t a bong; it was a porron.
Three more classes started this week. Two of them are in Spanish. That’ll be something. I have two marketing classes, one in Spanish and one in English, and the same guy teaches both of them. He’s a Spaniard who learned English in Miami. He has a Cuban accent. He tells jokes and stories for at least half the class. Today, he cracked up over the “rapid penetration” approach to marketing. He says it’s much better to penetrate slowly.
My senora’s grandkid is howling at the moon right now.
I got sick this week, sinus infection or something silly like that. I tried to wait it out, but those damn Spanish illnesses are persistent. This was good fortune, however, because I had the opportunity to meet a Barcelonese doctor. Nice guy. There were books all over his office, very fine leather bound books like Don Quixote and whatnot. And I looked at them.
Today, I got to chill with my senora because I stayed home from school. We watched a cooking show together. The host was a talker. It was a half hour show and all he made was pork chops with a beat sauce and a sprout salad.
Tomorrow night, I’m going to Portugal to visit my sister. But she won’t be there because some Germans just gave her a job to hoop in Germany, so she leaves tomorrow. Also, I think that I might clip my fingernails tomorrow.
Calcots are mild green onions that look like leeks. I’m fairly confident that they only grow in Catalunya, the region of Spain in which I am currently getting funky. They’re harvested in the winter. I heard the story that a calcot famer accidentally dropped one of his giant onions into the fire. Being a frugal man, he pulled that sucker out, peeled off the charred layer, and ate the good stuff. Shortly thereafter, he was known as a culinary genius for creating the calcotada.
A calcotada is grilled onion, and it’s, also, the whole oniongrilling-winedrinking-bibwearing event. That’s why we climbed the mountain. Yass. We wore bibs. First, they gave us grilled bread. We rubbed tomatoes and garlic on it and poured olive oil on it. Second, we had calcotadas. You peel the charred layer off, dip the onion in some romesco sauce, tilt your head back, and drop the onion in your mouth. Third, they gave us salad and olives and roasted red pepper. Fourth, we had grilled ribs and sausage with a garbanzo bean dish and french fries. Fifth, they served some cream puffs with chocolate sauce. The next Evening with Rob and Jay will be a calcotada event.
We also drank wine from a porron. It’s like a community water bottle. You just grab it and pour some in your mouth. That thing on Mrs. Hellstrom’s desk wasn’t a bong; it was a porron.
Three more classes started this week. Two of them are in Spanish. That’ll be something. I have two marketing classes, one in Spanish and one in English, and the same guy teaches both of them. He’s a Spaniard who learned English in Miami. He has a Cuban accent. He tells jokes and stories for at least half the class. Today, he cracked up over the “rapid penetration” approach to marketing. He says it’s much better to penetrate slowly.
My senora’s grandkid is howling at the moon right now.
I got sick this week, sinus infection or something silly like that. I tried to wait it out, but those damn Spanish illnesses are persistent. This was good fortune, however, because I had the opportunity to meet a Barcelonese doctor. Nice guy. There were books all over his office, very fine leather bound books like Don Quixote and whatnot. And I looked at them.
Today, I got to chill with my senora because I stayed home from school. We watched a cooking show together. The host was a talker. It was a half hour show and all he made was pork chops with a beat sauce and a sprout salad.
Tomorrow night, I’m going to Portugal to visit my sister. But she won’t be there because some Germans just gave her a job to hoop in Germany, so she leaves tomorrow. Also, I think that I might clip my fingernails tomorrow.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
The Rain in Spain falls Mainly when my sister comes to visit
So… my sister came here from Portugal on Saturday. She brought Ze. He’s really Portuguese. All of us got down pretty hard. She left on Wednesday morning. The trip consisted of all of us walking to every tourist attraction in Barcelona. We didn’t actually go inside of most of the places because that would cost too much money. But if we didn’t go inside we looked at the outside extra hard. It was, also, raining the entire time Ze and Emily were here.
Saturday, we didn’t do anything.
Sunday, we went to Plaza de Espana, this plaza/fountain thing. We looked at the bullring. (Barcelona stopped having bullfights. So I’d have to go somewhere else to see one. We’ll see how that goes. It’s not a priority. For example, if I had to choose between going to a bullfight or eating some really good paella, then I would choose the paella—but only if it’s really good.) We looked at the National Art Museum and saw one exhibit before someone asked to see our tickets. We looked at the Greek Theater which I found out they built for the World’s Fair (sorry dude). We saw some of that Olympic business that was built for the Olympics. We climbed Montjuic and saw the castle that was on top of the mountain. Castles are pringles. We walked to a few museums that looked very nice from the outside and are probably nice on the inside.
Monday, we went to Park Guell. That experience will be something I will talk about when I’m a rusty old gaffer. Gaudi designed the park for his bro Guell. I didn’t know much about Gaudi before I left for Spain. So far, without Wikipedia-ing him yet, I’ve discovered that he’s an architect that isn’t really into straight lines. Much of what he designs looks like it’s inspired from a combination of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and Candyland. After the park, my senora cooked dinner for us. Paella. And almond ice cream. (I didn’t know what paella was until then. It’s essentially risotto with seafood. Ours had fish, squid, chicken, mushrooms, crawfish, artichoke hearts, and love.)
Tuesday, we strolled down La Rambla, gawked at things in the market, checked out some more of Gaudi’s buildings, and consumed many pastries. That night, we ate some tapas and hung out in the restaurant until it closed at midnight. Then we hung out on a bench eating fried corn and sunflower seeds until about 2. Then we all parted ways. My senora was awake playing her DS when I got home.
The rain didn’t bother us much. There’s only two things that melt in the rain. However, rain has a negative effect on washing clothes. No one has dryers here, so everybody hangs wet clothes. When it rains, my senora doesn’t do the laundry. I only brought one suitcase. So I’m wearing swimming trunks for boxers right now
Saturday, we didn’t do anything.
Sunday, we went to Plaza de Espana, this plaza/fountain thing. We looked at the bullring. (Barcelona stopped having bullfights. So I’d have to go somewhere else to see one. We’ll see how that goes. It’s not a priority. For example, if I had to choose between going to a bullfight or eating some really good paella, then I would choose the paella—but only if it’s really good.) We looked at the National Art Museum and saw one exhibit before someone asked to see our tickets. We looked at the Greek Theater which I found out they built for the World’s Fair (sorry dude). We saw some of that Olympic business that was built for the Olympics. We climbed Montjuic and saw the castle that was on top of the mountain. Castles are pringles. We walked to a few museums that looked very nice from the outside and are probably nice on the inside.
Monday, we went to Park Guell. That experience will be something I will talk about when I’m a rusty old gaffer. Gaudi designed the park for his bro Guell. I didn’t know much about Gaudi before I left for Spain. So far, without Wikipedia-ing him yet, I’ve discovered that he’s an architect that isn’t really into straight lines. Much of what he designs looks like it’s inspired from a combination of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and Candyland. After the park, my senora cooked dinner for us. Paella. And almond ice cream. (I didn’t know what paella was until then. It’s essentially risotto with seafood. Ours had fish, squid, chicken, mushrooms, crawfish, artichoke hearts, and love.)
Tuesday, we strolled down La Rambla, gawked at things in the market, checked out some more of Gaudi’s buildings, and consumed many pastries. That night, we ate some tapas and hung out in the restaurant until it closed at midnight. Then we hung out on a bench eating fried corn and sunflower seeds until about 2. Then we all parted ways. My senora was awake playing her DS when I got home.
The rain didn’t bother us much. There’s only two things that melt in the rain. However, rain has a negative effect on washing clothes. No one has dryers here, so everybody hangs wet clothes. When it rains, my senora doesn’t do the laundry. I only brought one suitcase. So I’m wearing swimming trunks for boxers right now
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Barthelona.... that's how they say it
I’ve been in Barcelona for a week and three days now or something like that. I could write mucho about it. I’ll put the most important stuff at the beginning, and we’ll see how it goes.
Food. My senora just made some salmon. Holy smokes it was good. She doesn’t mess around in the kitchen. She makes brekkers and supper for me every day. Breakfast is not hearty here, but I’ll roll with it. I usually eat little muffins and fruit. We get down at supper time, however. It’s usually soup or salad, followed by a main course like a Spanish tortilla or something magical like that, then fruit, then some dulces if we feel like it. She made me a chocolate cake for my birthday. Oh yes.
AND I ate tapas on my birthday. (When you eat tapas you buy a bunch of small dishes that are inexpensive and share it with the table. And you drink wine, discuss futbol, and talk shit about Franco.) Me gusta. We had calamari and shrimp with eyes on them and octopus and patatas bravas and other things that picky eaters would not enjoy, 12 dishes total. There were some picky eaters with me, so I cleaned house. The tapas bar was classy. Marc said famous people eat there, and Marc knows his business.
Ah, my senora, Magda Font. She’s the lady of the house at my homestay. It’s only me and her. Her daughter, Eva, and daughter’s boy, Roc, come over for every meal. Sometimes they sleep here, too. I’m confused by why sometimes they sleep here and sometimes they don’t. I’ll keep you updated on my findings. Magda is super nice. She’s going to make me sack lunches starting tomorrow. She’s also a night owl. I came back at four in the morning on my birthday and she was sitting on the couch playing a Nintendo DS. She said she couldn’t sleep –probably because she couldn’t stop thinking about the Legend of Zelda.
We live in a poor neighborhood. Magda was complaining the other day about how nasty the neighborhood has gotten compared to when her parents lived here. I think that Magda is not poor.
My Spanish family does not speak English. We get by with hand gestures, facial expressions, and sound effects. Right now she’s pacing back and forth in the living room talking to someone on the phone in Catalan. Catalan is a language that mostly only people from Barcelona know. Everything is in Catalan: road signs, restaurant names, advertisements. It’s something.
Ah, Marc. There’s 150 Americans in this study abroad program. The company divided the student body into groups of seven and matched each group with a Spanish student of our own age. Marc is our Spanish student. His job is to answer questions and show us the city a little. He’s dope, and my group is the best group that one could have. Coincidentally, three of us had birthdays this week – Friday, Saturday, Sunday. That’s nuts, eh?
From the beginning of the trip: First, it was widely believed before I left on my New Year’s flight that it would be a huge fiesta in the sky. That was not the case. At midnight eastern time, I looked around the plane. Nothing happened. No one else was looking. So I wished the Egyptian lady next to me, “Happy New Years,” and took a snooze.
After arriving in Barcelona, I took a bus to the center of the city. I exited the bus and forgot my jacket. So within an hour of arriving in Europe I learned a valuable lesson: Barcelona is colder when you don’t have a coat.
It took me a good three hours and much direction asking to find my hostel. No problemo. I was in a room with six beds, but I was the only one sleeping in it… the bed and the room. So I had that going for me. Hostels are nice dude. I wasn’t worried about my well being except for when I took my shower without flippyfloppys.
I explored a little. Two days later, I went to the hotel for orientation. I felt like a freshman again. We did icebreakers and whatnot. The best part of orientation was the breakfast buffet. Also, I met a kid who goes to a fancypants university on the east coast. He told me that he’s visited three Spanish speaking countries: Spain, Costa Rica, and Puerto Rico.
During orientation, I somehow tested into the advanced Spanish class. Ridiculoco. I didn’t understand one of the words in an essay question, so I wrote about how I like apples.
Magda picked me up from the hotel. I chilled with her and nine-year-old Roc the next day. Now, I know Sponge Bob is not entertaining in both English and Spanish.
The next day was Dia de Tres Reyes eve. (Day of the Three Kings (like “we three kinds from orient are...)) There was a parade. I took pictures. Dia de Tres Reyes is very similar to Christmas. There’s three kings—a white one, a black one, and a ginger one— instead of Santa. At night, the kids put out cookies for the kings and water for the camels. Then, the following morning they open presents. Magda got me a key chain. I dig.
Classes have started. We learn things. It’s nice.
Ah, my birthday. We went to eat tapas, and then we went to a bar called Chupitos (shots). We had shots that they lit on fire and such. That was something. The bar was small and completely packed with people. I believe everyone in the bar were smoking except for the nine people I was with. Just as the nine of us were about to develop emphysema, we went to a club. I proceeded to dance my shit off.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
