tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53519574273077980922024-03-21T06:36:12.292-07:00aviators in andaluciaAlisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18423813542126775086noreply@blogger.comBlogger29125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5351957427307798092.post-26723220757615702202011-01-23T10:11:00.000-08:002011-01-23T12:29:04.327-08:00Jerez de la FronteraSlipping into the lukewarm water, instrumental Moroccan music fills my ears, the faint scent of jasmine incense wafts past, and I glance around at the people. I have just entered one of the pools of Jerez de la Frontera's Arab Baths. There are three pools of water: lukewarm, hot, and cold; they are divided by archways with intricate carvings and drapes. Bathers are intended to rotate throughout the pools, spending ten minutes each in the warm and hot pools, and a few seconds (as long as one can manage) in the cold pool. The cycle continues for about an hour and a half, each person rotating until called for his or her massage.<br /><br />I'm skeptical about the relaxation these pools of water are purported to provide. Sitting in pools of different temperatures for a little while? Sure, that sounds vaguely interesting... but I'm here nonetheless. I feel a need to do everything in Spain immediately, because I might never be able to do it again. So Alexia and I have trekked to Jerez de la Frontera to visit the Arab Baths and 'experience the culture' of another Andalucian city. My thoughts are racing, and the giggling of the young couple in the corner doesn't help me concentrate on thinking more slowly. I consider glancing pointedly at them, but decide against it because a) that seems to contradict the purpose of a relaxing spa and b) that kind of glance has never worked before in Spain, it likely will not work now either. They move on to the next pool. I am not relaxed. Have ten minutes passed? Is it time for me to move on to the next pool, too? I check to make sure Alexia is still in the warm pool with me. She looks perfectly serene. Ok, I will try harder to relax. Alexia migrates to the next pool. I follow dutifully.<br /><br />I try to imitate the people floating in this pool; they also look rather serene. It's hard to breathe. I'm not very good at floating, not to mention swimming. Luckily the pools are only three feet deep. Finally, it's time for the cold pool.<br /><br />I walk to the stairs entering the pool. This pool is much smaller than the others. I wonder why. I dip a toe into the water. It is frigid. I watch Alexia. She's standing to the side of the pool, mentally preparing herself to enter the water. Suddenly, she jumps over the side and into the water! She emits a series of gasps, visibly in pain. It's now or never, I think. I can only make it in up to my waist before my body starts to tremble and I immediately exit. I only succeeded at spending about ten seconds in the cold water, Alexia at least three times as much. I vow to do better during the next rotation.<br /><br />The warm pool is pleasant after the feeling of frozen needles attacking my lower body in the cold pool. I position myself near a candle inside a carved wooden holder. The movements of the candle are entrancing. Finally, I am relaxed. My thoughts wander to the '<span style="font-style: italic;">sangre encebollada</span>' we tried last night. It appeared on three menus before Alexia had the guts to order it. Roughly translated as 'blood with onion', it wasn't nearly as red as I had imagined. Dark brown and cut into cubes, the <span style="font-style: italic;">sangre encebollada</span> had a texture I have never before experienced: crumbly wax. I ate a piece the size of a nickel, that was enough. It smelled like meat, it just didn't taste like it. The Sherry wine from Jerez, however, was amazing! Jerez is known for it's Sherry, and rightly so. I'm not a Sherry connoisseur, but I particularly liked a thick, dark variety that was sweet and smelled strongly of raisins -- called <span style="font-style: italic;">Jerez Dulce</span>, or Sweet Sherry.<br /><br />After exploring the city, wandering through plazas and past churches, we end up consuming four meals: lunch, '<span style="font-style: italic;">merienda</span>' (afternoon snack), evening tapas, and dinner.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/alison-lee/5381706770/" title="plaza del arenal by mckay.alison, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5287/5381706770_c189ae34b8.jpg" alt="plaza del arenal" height="500" width="375" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/alison-lee/5381108353/" title="a church by mckay.alison, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5046/5381108353_2358d3bd84.jpg" alt="a church" height="500" width="375" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/alison-lee/5381720486/" title="alexia by mckay.alison, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5128/5381720486_d915f384e4.jpg" alt="alexia" height="375" width="500" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/alison-lee/5381125075/" title="the cathedral by mckay.alison, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5289/5381125075_1d6c96777e.jpg" alt="the cathedral" height="375" width="500" /></a><br /><br />Now it's time for a bar. Our chosen spot, the Buda Bar with a British East India Company theme, has a discotheque hidden upstairs. We enter, and the DJ is playing one of the standard Top 40 hits. It's a normal Spanish discotheque scene: guys with shiny hair and shoes, girls with skirts, high heels, and eyeliner. Suddenly, the music changes. Instead of your average club hit like Lady Gaga, it's a pop style Flamenco song. The crowd cheers. Girls start tapping their heels and clapping. Everyone knows the words. The DJ plays a 'nuevo Flamenco' song again. And again. Groups of girls are doing 'Sevillanas' dance steps, a type of Flamenco step that the average southern Spaniard knows. And then, as quickly as it started, it's over. The DJ moves on to Reggaeton, and then back to Lady Gaga. Spain still surprises me sometimes.<br /><br />After what feels like hours moving through the pools of water, we are called for our massages. Next, we sip sweet Moroccan mint tea in a room near the pools. I feel as though I'm floating. I don't feel the pressure of my limbs, or the usual tension in my shoulders. Only my tongue is in pain, due to my excitement to drink the very hot sweet tea.Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18423813542126775086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5351957427307798092.post-41371916989040093632010-09-29T14:54:00.000-07:002010-09-29T14:55:40.266-07:00Estepona vs. CádizAlthough a regular football (read: soccer) viewer here in Spain, I've never actually been to a real, live game. Until Sunday, that is.<br /><br />As we headed towards the stadium here in Estepona, Carlos explained that the Cádiz supporters were sometimes a bit 'strange' and that I should not worry, no matter how many communist symbols I saw. I assured him that communist symbols would not frighten me.<br /><br />We entered a sea of yellow and red and maneuvered our way towards the gate. Carlos is a Cádiz supporter, so we followed the yellow Cádiz crowd. Never having been to a football game here in Spain, I didn't know much about the norms. At the gate, the police searched my bag. My plastic water bottle was contraband.<br /><br />"She won't throw it at anyone," Carlos tries to assure them. "It's the bottle cap that's the problem," the policeman responds. Apparently water bottles can be used as projectiles to injure players at sporting events. "What if I empty the water out, can I bring the empty bottle in?" I ask. "Yes.. but then you could just fill it up in the bathroom. Fine, just take it inside with you." And we continue. I am momentarily pleased that Spanish police are so malleable. I would have been very sad to throw away my Nalgene.<br /><br />We find seats near Carlos' Cádiz-supporting friends, and I settle in to absorb the football culture. The first thing I absorb, however, is a cloud of smoke. It is not cigarette smoke. Groups of people all around us are smoking joints. I am surprised, not least because it is noon on Sunday at a public small-town event. Carlos explains that Cádiz supporters are a bit notorious for their smoking habits, but that this is a common occurrence at football games. The police stride past, making no comment. Marijuana is not legal in Spain. But, the police seem uninterested in pursuing the issue.<br /><br />Luckily, we're seated in an exceptionally interesting section of the crowd. Just in front of us, a group of intense Cádiz supporters begins to amass. For me, it's nearly cultural overload. I'm constantly glancing around, attempting to take only a <span style="font-style: italic;">few</span> photos, and trying not to stare too intently at the man wearing a very politically controversial shirt just in front of us:<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/alison-lee/5030483973/" title="check out this guy's shirt by mckay.alison, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4100/5030483973_e13773cd5e.jpg" alt="check out this guy's shirt" height="500" width="375" /></a><br /><br />It's a Basque nationalist flag, over a map of the Basque country (a northern region of Spain). His banner includes a hammer and sickle. Many other supporters in this group wear shirts including the words 'anti-fascist'. At the very least, the average enthusiastic supporter has a scarf like this one, with a red star:<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/alison-lee/5031112482/" title="red star! by mckay.alison, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4150/5031112482_0f039c857f.jpg" alt="red star!" height="250" width="500" /></a><br /><br />During halftime, Carlos and I explore the Estepona stadium:<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/alison-lee/5030488763/" title="carlos by mckay.alison, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4128/5030488763_b5b67d4d5d.jpg" alt="carlos" height="375" width="500" /></a><br /><br />The 'intense' Cádiz supporters in front of us have many interesting chants, the most amusing of which emerges during the final minutes of the game. Suddenly, a scuffle appears at the far end of the stadium. Three police officers have converged on an Estepona supporter (identifiable by his red shirt), and other law enforcement officials are hurrying towards the scene. The attention of the entire crowd shifts from the game, which Cádiz is winning 2-0, to the situation in the stands. The group just in front of us begins catcalling the police, which I captured in video format on my camera:<br /><br /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://www.flickr.com/apps/video/stewart.swf?v=71377" classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="400" width="300"> <param name="flashvars" value="intl_lang=en-us&photo_secret=4c670dfeaf&photo_id=5031358534"> <param name="movie" value="http://www.flickr.com/apps/video/stewart.swf?v=71377"> <param name="bgcolor" value="#000000"> <param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><embed type="application/x-shockwave-flash" src="http://www.flickr.com/apps/video/stewart.swf?v=71377" bgcolor="#000000" allowfullscreen="true" flashvars="intl_lang=en-us&photo_secret=4c670dfeaf&photo_id=5031358534" height="400" width="300"></embed></object><br /><br />Carlos interprets the chant - from hard to understand Spanish to easy to understand Spanish - near the end of the video. The chant says: 'there is a disease that will not be cured, it's the police!' The entire crowd joins. Cádiz wins, 2-0.<br /><br />I am now a Cádiz supporter.Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18423813542126775086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5351957427307798092.post-73805589654856753382010-09-20T07:11:00.000-07:002010-09-20T12:20:13.280-07:00Small WorldAfter sixteen hours of travel, I emerged from the Madrid metro at the <span style="font-style: italic;">Estación Sur<span style="font-style: italic;"> de Autobuses</span></span> -- the Madrid bus station. I was an hour and a half later than I had expected to be, so the chances of catching my preferred bus were slim. I needed to get a seven hour bus to Estepona. Only two direct buses depart from Madrid, one in the morning and one at night. On the off chance that tickets for the morning bus, departing in 40 minutes, were still available, I dragged my luggage to the ticket window. (I literally mean that I 'dragged' my luggage - I chose to bring a suitcase with a broken wheel because it still rolled sufficiently in my Wenatchee living room. Another wheel broke during transit and it no longer rolled so well.)<br /><br />I shuffled up to the window and spoke the phrase I had practiced, <span style="font-style: italic;">''A qué hora sale el primero para Estepona?''</span> It seemed to work well. She understood. I was still able to speak Spanish. AND there were still a few seats left on the bus! <br /><br />Ticket in hand, I lugged my belongings downstairs to the bus terminal. After my many hours of travel, very little sleep, and stressful travel through Madrid metro due to the broken wheel, the sight of my bus was comforting. Finally, I was in Spain again, speaking Spanish, and all of my belongings were still with me. But, to my surprise, an even more comforting sight appeared. Dani (<span style="font-style: italic;">'el roquero'<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></span></span>), a British friend from Estepona, was waiting to get on the same bus! In Madrid, a city where I know barely a soul, a familiar face appeared. We commiserated over being dreadfully tired and shared stories of our summers. Upon arrival in Estepona, Dani accompanied me all the way to my new apartment to help with my luggage -- we aren't even close friends, but that's Spanish hospitality.<br /><br />The rest of my return to Spain has been similar: surprisingly welcoming and pleasantly comfortable.Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18423813542126775086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5351957427307798092.post-55474910421307485622010-08-29T21:37:00.000-07:002010-08-29T21:39:15.627-07:00Bittersweet<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/alison-lee/3885135817/" title="lily by mckay.alison, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3463/3885135817_6e1db1d454.jpg" alt="lily" height="375" width="500" /></a><br /><br />A few days ago, I walked into my bedroom at my parents' house, only to find a fluffy cat sleeping upon my pillow. The cat, named Lily, initially belonged to my sister, but she began to reside in East Wenatchee when my sister moved in with her boyfriend a few years ago. Back to the point, Lily had never chosen to sleep on my pillow. I'd almost never even seen her enter my room. She roams the rest of the house like a queen in her kingdom, jumping on the table or the kitchen counter whenever she pleases (much to the displeasure of my mother), but my bedroom has mysteriously remained outside of her domain. So, I might add, have I. Not because I dislike her, or because I dislike cats; I rather like cats, and cats rather like me. But, no matter how diligently I tried to earn her affection, it was always fruitless.<br /><br />Ever since I arrived in June, I would regularly pet her, pick her up, meow at her, or just generally try to interact with her. When I attempted to pet her, she would walk away. Pick her up? She squeakily meowed like there was no tomorrow, until I released her. Meow at her? (This usually works with other cats.) She would wander away, unamused.<br /><br />But, somehow, after two and a half months, I have gained Lily's trust. I can only assume that my diligence has paid off. And now I am leaving. Will she remember me in a few months? What about in a year? Was all of my effort for nothing, only to enjoy Lily's affection for the next two weeks until I return to a faraway land? It was worth it, I think.<br /><br />... I think.Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18423813542126775086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5351957427307798092.post-70784347131174111182010-08-07T17:37:00.000-07:002010-08-07T17:41:11.728-07:00this is awesome<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSS5xsNR8dutAjdv2mdP1ivkuYYVGLJ21nI6dEiW1mDagCzPImTO1FDUY5-aHlLHklAhfCwnMkDf316inmOip8LnEtW82fa_mwDu-5XvOrfmZhfoxgx7sQXmO9NbIbPsmfLM0sOWEYfxo/s1600/jean+touitou.jpeg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 505px; height: 409px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSS5xsNR8dutAjdv2mdP1ivkuYYVGLJ21nI6dEiW1mDagCzPImTO1FDUY5-aHlLHklAhfCwnMkDf316inmOip8LnEtW82fa_mwDu-5XvOrfmZhfoxgx7sQXmO9NbIbPsmfLM0sOWEYfxo/s1600/jean+touitou.jpeg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikYDmLxa2gJvFoaw_2bFBeRnIDfOkPqJzjspcRJlORtX9atvRxI82QebTmFHo9lDd4BEB7NrKePi5W42nkJSk3swx683ksF0d7NDjvc9yhxaOuGrgWIkdjKaBIkJ1FX7FqdoCqHKtHCbFM/s1600/jean+touitou+behaviour+guide.jpeg"><br /></a>Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18423813542126775086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5351957427307798092.post-11196995889713895732010-07-06T20:03:00.000-07:002010-08-08T21:27:49.967-07:00June WanderingsI woke up on June 4 in a sleepy daze, the kind that comes after a night of much too little sleep, and glanced at my cell phone. It felt a little warm in the room, evidence that the sun had risen more than expected for my 7:30am wake-up time, but I wasn't too worried as I glanced at the clock on my cell phone. And then, suddenly, I <span style="font-style: italic;">was</span> worried. It was 9:20am. I was going to miss my bus to the airport! Well, more specifically, I was going to miss the first of two (both necessary) buses that would transport me to the airport before my flight to Bilbao. After breathing heavily and frantically considering all of my options for a few minutes, I hurriedly packed all of my things and ran out the door to the bus station. I had certainly already missed my bus, but there was a chance, just a chance, that another bus would be driving the same route, even though it wasn't posted.<br /><br />I arrived at the station and explained my situation to the lady at the counter. She looked skeptically at me, but found (to my incredible delight!) a bus that would take me to Marbella, where I could catch my second bus to the airport. Thus, my travels around the Iberian Peninsula began.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/alison-lee/4726211066/" title="Bilbao, Basque Country by mckay.alison, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1407/4726211066_be154b5229_b.jpg" alt="Bilbao, Basque Country" height="500" width="375" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/alison-lee/4725567675/" title="San Sebastian, Basque Country by mckay.alison, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1357/4725567675_1dde7fc68d_b.jpg" alt="San Sebastian, Basque Country" height="500" width="375" /></a><br /><br /><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/alison-lee/4726213264/" title="San Sebastian, Basque Country by mckay.alison, on Flickr"><img style="width: 374px; height: 281px;" src="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1416/4726213264_99d1647f7a.jpg" alt="San Sebastian, Basque Country" /></a></span><br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/alison-lee/4725586977/" title="Oviedo Cathedral by mckay.alison, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1194/4725586977_0ba2d2009d_b.jpg" alt="Oviedo Cathedral" height="500" width="375" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/alison-lee/4725588059/" title="Bagpipes by mckay.alison, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1033/4725588059_67bb05392c_b.jpg" alt="Bagpipes" height="500" width="375" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/alison-lee/4725589635/" title="Botafumeiro by mckay.alison, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1381/4725589635_e024cab3c7.jpg" alt="Botafumeiro" height="500" width="375" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/alison-lee/4726236936/" title="Santiago de Compostela by mckay.alison, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1424/4726236936_4e0cc09aa7.jpg" alt="Santiago de Compostela" height="500" width="375" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/alison-lee/4725590707/" title="Porto Street by mckay.alison, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1333/4725590707_352423641f.jpg" alt="Porto Street" height="500" width="375" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/alison-lee/4725592073/" title="Porto Street by mckay.alison, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1083/4725592073_06972d174f.jpg" alt="Porto Street" height="500" width="375" /></a><br /><br /><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/alison-lee/4725593759/" title="Alfama District by mckay.alison, on Flickr"><img style="width: 374px; height: 282px;" src="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1350/4725593759_391f50fa1c_m.jpg" alt="Alfama District" /></a></span><br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/alison-lee/4725594315/" title="Alfama District by mckay.alison, on Flickr"><img style="width: 373px; height: 280px;" src="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1197/4725594315_e68b4dffbe.jpg" alt="Alfama District" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/alison-lee/4725594913/" title="Lisbon by mckay.alison, on Flickr"><img style="width: 374px; height: 281px;" src="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1363/4725594913_411b472cb8.jpg" alt="Lisbon" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/alison-lee/4725598747/" title="Sintra, Portugal by mckay.alison, on Flickr"><img style="width: 369px; height: 277px;" src="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1393/4725598747_48a6559bed.jpg" alt="Sintra, Portugal" /></a><br /><br />(1)Guggenheim Museum, Bilbao, Basque Country, Spain<br />(2)Door on Juan de Bilbao Street, San Sebastian, Basque Country, Spain<br />(3)La Concha Bay, San Sebastian, Spain<br />(4)Oviedo Cathedral, Spain<br />(5)Bagpipes, Santiago de Compostela, Spain<br />(6)<span style="font-style: italic;">Botafumeiro</span>, Santiago de Compostela Cathedral, Spain<br />(7)Santiago de Compostela, Spain<br />(8, 9, 10)Porto, Portugal<br />(11)Alfama District, Lisbon, Portugal<br />(12)Lisbon, Portugal<br />(13)Sintra, PortugalAlisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18423813542126775086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5351957427307798092.post-13868936273910176772010-06-30T15:44:00.000-07:002010-06-30T15:53:06.551-07:00Dwindling SkillsI've been back in the USA for a week and I've already forgotten how to convert Fahrenheit to Celsius. If I think about it for a few minutes, I can make a rough conversion, but I used to be able to do so in a matter of seconds. The fact that it's only taken me a week to forget a skill I used regularly in Spain worries me about my beloved Spanish language skills.. now begins my effort to maintain a skill that I will use rarely for the next few months.Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18423813542126775086noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5351957427307798092.post-78547390582811103332010-05-18T10:34:00.000-07:002010-05-18T11:02:52.884-07:00Trying to explain my opinion of American culture last night, I realized I had forgotten the word <span style="font-style: italic;">hegemony</span>. At university (the British way of saying college; a part of the weird mixture of American/British English I currently utilize), I encountered this word almost daily. It was a buzzword. I learned it as a freshman and used it in nearly every International Studies essay thereafter. But, all of a sudden, I graduated from university and it disappeared from my life. A few minutes later in the conversation last night, I had the same problem with <span style="font-style: italic;">genetic</span>.<br /><br />I haven't thought about the concept of hegemony itself in a good few months. (I definitely have considered genetics recently, so that was more of a fluke.) Instead, I spend my time figuring out that you can use the same word in Spanish to describe pouring something in a cup, throwing someone out of your house, and putting on sunscreen (<span style="font-style: italic;">echar</span>), that <span style="font-style: italic;">queso de untar</span> is cream cheese, that <span style="font-style: italic;">cacharro</span> is carnival ride, or<span style="font-style: italic;"> </span>that <span style="font-style: italic;">conjunctivitis </span>how you say pinkeye in both Spanish and British English.<br /><br />I'm not sure how I feel about this. I'll probably never forget <span style="font-style: italic;">hegemony</span> again, nor <span style="font-style: italic;">genetic</span>, but I'll certainly forget other pretentious intellectual words that I don't utilize nearly as often in Spain. I must keep up with my reading of the New York Times, etc. After all, that is what my International Studies degree taught me to do...Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18423813542126775086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5351957427307798092.post-44518396331369980792010-04-23T08:27:00.001-07:002010-04-23T09:15:25.550-07:00Sometimes...Sometimes bees confuse my head with flowers. It is always frightening.<br /><br />Sometimes I feel like I have a different personality in Spanish, because my tone of voice is different, and I express myself in different ways (far less adequately than in English).<br /><br />Sometimes I question my reasons for traveling. 'To experience other cultures and learn new languages' <span style="font-style: italic;">sounds </span>super legit and is essentially the realization of my university studies, but just because something <span style="font-style: italic;">sounds</span> rational doesn't mean that it's true.<br /><br />Sometimes I have trouble separating what I tell myself my reasons <span style="font-style: italic;">should</span> be for doing various things, and what my reasons really are. But then I wonder, is there really a difference between those two things? Can't I decide the way to live my reality, and create my own 'reasons' for doing things? What does 'true' actually mean?<br /><br />Basically, I want to remain in Spain next year. I applied to my program, was accepted, but I don't know where I'll be placed. It will definitely be within Andalucía, but it might be another province. My most rational reason for staying is because I have a job here, and I think that job is pretty nice. My second most rational reason is to better my Spanish, because it's improving, but it could get a lot better.<br /><br />Sometimes I worry that I will make a relatively permanent decision, one that's hard to back out of, and then I'll completely change my mind. What if I don't want to be in Spain by next November? But, the exact same thing could happen in the USA, in Seattle, in Wenatchee. So, for now, I will do this.<br /><br />And by 'this' I mean show you pictures of pretty flowers and kittens.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/alison-lee/4546058584/" title="Parque Calvario by mckay.alison, on Flickr"><img style="width: 375px; height: 282px;" src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4013/4546058584_fa5d1fb775_b.jpg" alt="Parque Calvario" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/alison-lee/4546053504/" title="George by mckay.alison, on Flickr"><img style="width: 374px; height: 282px;" src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4057/4546053504_17697a8911_b.jpg" alt="George" /></a>Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18423813542126775086noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5351957427307798092.post-36563827097471010812010-04-03T08:59:00.000-07:002010-04-03T12:14:36.102-07:00Semana SantaI had been waiting for the <span style="font-style: italic;">Semana Santa</span> procession for hours. Tired, cold, and with any desire to see the procession waning, I could finally hear it coming. The sound of the snare drum was unmistakable. The people crowded in the street started to organize themselves. I squeezed myself into an open space near a flowerbed and held my ground. Judging by the proximity of the snare drum, I decided the procession would arrive in a few minutes, Jesus would meander by on a pedestal along with some people in pointy white hats, and the whole ordeal would be over within half an hour. I didn't know very much about <span style="font-style: italic;">Semana Santa</span> processions.<br /><br />It was my fault I had been waiting for so long. I left my apartment early, just to make sure I didn't miss anything, but going anywhere early is a bad idea in Spain. Thus, realizing the procession wouldn't arrive, let alone begin at all for at least 3 hours, I resigned to reading my novel under the setting sun, and then getting coffee and reading my novel some more. That killed 2 hours, so I decided to spend the last hour chatting with friends at a known hang-out spot. Perfect, I had passed my 3 hours with ease, and set off to find my Wednesday evening Holy Week procession around 10:30pm.<br /><br />But, parting with my Spanish friends was difficult because, being male, they were hesitant to let me wander off alone into the night to track down the parade of white pointy hats. But, they were also completely uninterested in seeing the procession themselves, having been inundated with it enough times as children. They seemed to think that I should skip the procession and any religious celebration of <span style="font-style: italic;">Semana Santa</span>, and continue hanging out with them. I told them I wasn't coming to Spain and missing a bunch of people carrying Jesus down the street on their shoulders, so we settled with them accompanying me halfway to the procession, and then agreeing to meet up later.<br /><br />Eventually, the procession arrived. The policeman told me it would arrive at 10:30, but it didn't reach me until 11:15. That was to be expected. I watched intently as the rows of white hats paraded down the street.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2686/4482445702_8a7de2aa73_b.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 362px; height: 271px;" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2686/4482445702_8a7de2aa73_b.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />Being American, I attach an entirely different meaning to those white hats, with their eerie faceless masks, uniform robes, and tiny eye slits. But, after the initial shock, I tried to push that image out of my thoughts.<br /><br />The procession continued, with clumps of children in between the rows of pointy hats, adding comic relief and amusement. Being children, the pushed each other, dropped the 'important' religious objects they were carrying, and were generally merry. The merriment was apparent because they didn't have masks - the masked adults may have been merry, but who could tell behind the menacing pointy hats? (Clearly, I couldn't completely banish the KKK image from my mind.)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2758/4482465538_6b6752c1a4_b.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 330px; height: 246px;" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2758/4482465538_6b6752c1a4_b.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />Next, and to my surprise, came women in all black, with painfully high heels and lace draped over their hair. I'm still not sure of their purpose, but the black seemed like mourning.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4053/4481829367_a75041564b_b.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 340px; height: 453px;" src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4053/4481829367_a75041564b_b.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />And finally! Jesus arrived! Carried on the shoulders of penitent Catholics, he moved by at a snail's pace, and everyone around me stood and clapped. The standing, I surmise, was in respect for Jesus, and the clapping was for the faithful carriers. (<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/alison-lee/4482565358/">Click here to see a video</a>.)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4020/4482485424_fe250903a5_b.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 353px; height: 467px;" src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4020/4482485424_fe250903a5_b.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4026/4482493006_90e17678ce_b.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 352px; height: 263px;" src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4026/4482493006_90e17678ce_b.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />Jesus was followed by a band. It was now midnight, and thus, I decided that the procession must be over. I was blocked in by people, so I waited for them to part to make my exit. They didn't part. They didn't move at all, in fact. To my dismay, the procession was not over. Not even close. Still to come was the Virgin Mary, surrounded by many more pointy hats, women in black, children, and another band. I only stayed long enough to catch a glimpse of the mourning Mary and then escaped through cracks in the crowd.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4019/4482500164_cf4d109000_b.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 327px; height: 434px;" src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4019/4482500164_cf4d109000_b.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />Now half past midnight, I ventured off to join the non-religious <span style="font-style: italic;">Semana Santa</span> celebrations, much like Spring Break celebrations in the States.Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18423813542126775086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5351957427307798092.post-10837296639471071682010-03-19T13:49:00.000-07:002010-03-19T13:53:16.595-07:00''In Washington DC, if I try to broadcast on an FM radio frequency without a legal broadcast licence, I will be shut down. When this happens in Venezuela, it is reported as censorship.''<br /><br />The Guardian - <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/cifamerica/2010/mar/18/venezuela-election"><span style="font-size:100%;">The anti-Venezuela election campaign</span></a><br /><br />AMEN.Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18423813542126775086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5351957427307798092.post-1371895206901939832010-03-19T08:33:00.000-07:002010-03-21T09:58:47.523-07:00LONDON!My perception of London: it's just like the US of A. That may offend some Londoners, and also some Americans... but they've got Starbucks, Urban Outfitters, strawberry flavored Chapstick, vegetarian options at all the restaurants, people on bikes everywhere, AND they speak English. Sure, they've got a funny accent (to my ears), but so do people from New York, Chicago, or Alabama. That being said, I do rather like the United States, so I also liked London. I immediately felt comfortable wandering around the city (after my customary 'getting massively lost' ritual; this has been an important part of my entrance to every new city).<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2765/4436778194_a8dd150c52_b.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 337px; height: 446px;" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2765/4436778194_a8dd150c52_b.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2698/4436048483_0a97462353_b.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 365px; height: 273px;" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2698/4436048483_0a97462353_b.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4056/4436068967_fb40e8cb0e_b.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 375px; height: 280px;" src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4056/4436068967_fb40e8cb0e_b.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />Here's me being a typical tourist at the infamous Abbey Road:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4016/4436038457_cf292b8c14_b.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 363px; height: 271px;" src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4016/4436038457_cf292b8c14_b.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>I saw Grizzly Bear and Beach House, two bands I'm absolutely in love with.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2701/4436061689_9b9a2aba08_b.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 362px; height: 271px;" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2701/4436061689_9b9a2aba08_b.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18423813542126775086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5351957427307798092.post-54542947527453444392010-03-10T07:03:00.000-08:002010-03-10T07:35:20.051-08:00here's to youPeople here are shocked that I'm going to London, alone, tomorrow. And it's the alone part, not the tomorrow part, that shocks them. Not everyone, just a fair number of average adults. I've actually seen some jaws drop, excluding my young, liberal friends. Personally, I'm pretty excited about the prospect of traveling alone for a weekend, because I get to be exponentially more selfish than I could possibly be when sharing a trip with someone else (however, herein lies the problem: I can't <span style="font-style: italic;">share</span> the trip with anyone). It could turn out to be rather lonely, which I've accepted as a possibility, or it could turn out to be an amazing and liberating experience, much like traveling to Spain alone was. I'm not sure yet. You see, other than hopping across the Atlantic solo and plopping down in Madrid with a suitcase and a backpack last September, I haven't really done any solo traveling. I've always wanted to, but there are these persistent little voices whispering into my ears that I can't do that. That girls can't do that. Or, that I, with red hair, white skin, and a petite posture (?) can't do that because I'm an easy target. Well, here's to you, voices who say that I can't.<br /><br />Anywho, I'm only going to London alone, where the people speak my language and look an awful lot like me. I'm not sure what the fuss is about.Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18423813542126775086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5351957427307798092.post-15683885234674550142010-02-02T10:01:00.000-08:002010-02-02T16:25:46.014-08:00Wintertime ActivitiesJanuary was good. To my complete and utter enjoyment, I spent most of it in Estepona, going out on the weekends and learning the lyrics to <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qrO4YZeyl0I">Lady Gaga's 'Bad Romance'</a>. I also moved to a new apartment with this view:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2651/3969664224_90fcc49e92_b.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 382px; height: 285px;" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2651/3969664224_90fcc49e92_b.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />You can't see it in the picture, but the ocean is out there on the right side. So, I now live with my American friend Josh. He likes music and dancing, and is a vast improvement from Juan, my previous roommate, who liked hamsters and deep-frying french fries. Anyhow, other than moving and familiarizing myself with the discotheque scene here in Estepona, I did manage to do a bit of traveling. I saw Toledo, a town just south of Madrid, which is a World Heritage Site and has lots of cool architecture and a pretty cathedral:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2719/4251704922_f35b911ede_b.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 383px; height: 506px;" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2719/4251704922_f35b911ede_b.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>I hung out in Madrid with American friends Andrew and Emily:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4005/4251711260_86fa37e6e8_b.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 394px; height: 294px;" src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4005/4251711260_86fa37e6e8_b.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>And then, along with some other Americans, we went to Granada:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2753/4251800064_cdebca4613_b.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 396px; height: 296px;" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2753/4251800064_cdebca4613_b.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>It was one of my favorite cities ever, with a vibrant youthful culture, political graffiti all over the walls, and bomb Moroccan food. We also saw a massive Moorish castle called the Alhambra, which had intricate carvings on all the walls and was built during the 14th century:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2788/4251921458_14138d69d0_b.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 386px; height: 511px;" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2788/4251921458_14138d69d0_b.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />I decided to be the super-tourist and get an audio guide for the visit (hanging around my neck in the photo), but due to some burst of confidence and a yearning to hear the Spanish language, I asked to have my guide in Spanish (I could have chosen one of many languages, English included). I was the only member of my group to get the super-touristy audio guide, and so, of course, it became my duty to retell the information to my friends. Let's just say I'm not ready to be a translator. Yet.<br /><br />I also made it up to Ronda, a classic 'pueblo blanco' (white village) in Andalucía, last weekend with a teacher-friend and her husband. There was a lot of ham:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4063/4320732766_c72e287577_b.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 392px; height: 522px;" src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4063/4320732766_c72e287577_b.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>Ronda is also home to a very picturesque bullfighting ring, and it's one that Ernest Hemingway used to frequent! I just finished reading Hemingway's 'The Sun Also Rises', which is mainly about bullfighting in Spain, so it was really interesting to actually <span style="font-style: italic;">see</span> one of the places that inspired his work.. and see pictures of him all around town:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2803/4320732788_0c2df6f15c_b.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 392px; height: 523px;" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2803/4320732788_0c2df6f15c_b.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />February will probably bring more traveling and less discotheque-ing, because Erin is visiting (!!!!) in 2.5 weeks, but that's a trade off I'm happy about.Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18423813542126775086noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5351957427307798092.post-27319544879207234402010-01-20T10:48:00.000-08:002010-01-20T10:51:13.569-08:00Change of AddressI'm moving into a new place on Sunday! Instead of living with Juan and the hamsters, I will live with my American friend Josh and hang out on his bomb terrace that has a view of the ocean and sometimes Africa. Woooooooo<br /><br />Email me if you would like my new address.Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18423813542126775086noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5351957427307798092.post-14354316998565607932010-01-06T13:57:00.000-08:002010-01-06T14:50:24.160-08:00Home(s)<div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">'Home' is a funny thing. Can a person have more than one of them? Sometimes it's a singular concept, like when someone says 'I'm going home', we know this person is going to the place where his/her bed and possessions are located. But, the phrase 'I'm going home for Christmas' has an entirely different meaning, usually connoting a return to family and friends. I had a different sort of homecoming here in Spain. The majority of my possessions weren't waiting for me at my apartment in Estepona, and neither were my friends nor family. But, upon arrival in Estepona, I felt that I was coming 'home' after prolonged travel (aka: lots of dirty laundry in my backpack, sleep-deprived from staying in youth hostels), and I felt relief to walk down familiar streets on the way to my apartment. It was refreshing to hear Spanish again in Spain, and calming to go to my favorite cafe today.<br /></div><br />Wenatchee<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZLxkmZCWSHeUslGYg4NQvvakzWT7jrCkBp-lQDlwMW7tli8BoZEmd48HVP038N7mZYoYeeVLSWbOq4vHBszBRmTDdsPC4EORoIeCge2R5X46oiCNu52sRVgPyM-gKLhZNSZq-6G2PxlW7/s1600-h/AliPics+098.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 394px; height: 294px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZLxkmZCWSHeUslGYg4NQvvakzWT7jrCkBp-lQDlwMW7tli8BoZEmd48HVP038N7mZYoYeeVLSWbOq4vHBszBRmTDdsPC4EORoIeCge2R5X46oiCNu52sRVgPyM-gKLhZNSZq-6G2PxlW7/s320/AliPics+098.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423754327645102626" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Seattle<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiogAqI5ug5w7h_N7BWE-K2EFV3Xwo-dRcRoA5KqQEItzlKJsTUnbYSWKKMD9-7AsPw6Nh6Kkgb-ytHj-bKv7epeA6Tl4ch3E5XW8EigmibL5DttZ-DcZ-bwmutuvLxq46SRgUGvjfkOYtV/s1600-h/P8280015.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 393px; height: 294px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiogAqI5ug5w7h_N7BWE-K2EFV3Xwo-dRcRoA5KqQEItzlKJsTUnbYSWKKMD9-7AsPw6Nh6Kkgb-ytHj-bKv7epeA6Tl4ch3E5XW8EigmibL5DttZ-DcZ-bwmutuvLxq46SRgUGvjfkOYtV/s320/P8280015.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423752212863669826" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Estepona<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2605/4090521395_758cb0e0c8_b.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 372px; height: 495px;" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2605/4090521395_758cb0e0c8_b.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />So, now I have three homes. I wonder, though, how many homes can a person have? When will some of them start drifting away?Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18423813542126775086noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5351957427307798092.post-53328989359980692172009-12-13T10:17:00.001-08:002009-12-13T10:35:11.191-08:00Furry FriendsMy roommate, Juan, has 10 hamsters. Ok, fine. A little weird, but I can get over it. Previously, he had 30, but he gave 20 of them to a pet store. Good.<br /><br />A few weeks ago, I was peeking into the cage in the living room, watching the furry little things run around. Oddly, I could only find 7 hamsters. 'What could have happened to the other 3?', I wondered. 'Did they die? Did he give them to his 10 year old daughter in Marbella? Or to his 6 year old son in Burgos?' I didn't spend much time thinking about it, and continued on with my day. <br /><br />Fast forward to yesterday. <br /><br />I've been sick with the flu for a while, and last night I ventured out into the kitchen for some tea and ice cream. I switched on the light, but it was one of those fluorescent lights that takes forever for turn on. So, in the darkness, I heard a quiet scurrying. I paused. It couldn't be the dog, because the dog had gone somewhere with Juan. The light finally kicked in. I saw something small and light colored run across the kitchen floor. 'Oh no!', I thought, 'we have mice!' But, this particular mouse didn't have a tail. In fact, it was furry, like a hamster. In my slightly delirious state, I couldn't decide what to do. The hamster stood near the door, cleaning its paws and staring at me. I stared back. Eventually, I decided to continue with the task at hand: get some tea. The hamster made a dash for the refrigerator. I haven't seen it since. <br /><br />There are 2 other missing hamsters.Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18423813542126775086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5351957427307798092.post-66131355036645933972009-12-11T15:40:00.000-08:002009-12-11T15:56:24.249-08:00Blair WaldorfI harbor a secret fear that I will become like the people I watch on television. I have never feared that I would turn into a large mound of ice cream (you are what you eat), but I do fear that I could become like the self-centered, money-obsessed main character of Gossip Girl (you are who you watch) ..but only if I watch too much TV.Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18423813542126775086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5351957427307798092.post-57360662769173575602009-12-03T05:52:00.001-08:002009-12-03T06:43:39.173-08:00Yesterday, for the first time, I had an overwhelming feeling of joy for being here in Spain. It's not that I haven't been happy for the past two months, because I have been. More accurately, it was the first time that I was happy to be happy in Spain. <br /><br />I set my alarm to wake up early with the intention of running some potentially complicated errands. As I drifted into an awakened state, I noticed the complete darkness in my room, which seemed odd for 8am. Then I remembered that I had closed the contraption (similar to a small garage door) that covers the outside of my window the night before, in an attempt to keep some heat inside. Squeakily opening the garage door, I saw a normal sunlit day outside, with puffy marshmallow clouds and bright blue sky behind. It was an average December day in Estepona (much like a late spring day in Seattle). <br /><br />I breakfasted my usual fruit granola, yogurt, and honey, and ventured into town, holding back yawns. I headed for the bank. I needed to cash my paycheck. Banks can be incredibly complicated, wait times can be long, and unpredictable complications tend to arise. Accordingly, I budgeted 2 hours for a task that would have taken 20 minutes back home. To my surprise, everything went smoothly at the bank. I walked back out the door, cash in hand, 10 minutes after I had arrived! So, with a few extra hours on hand, I decided to run another errand. I went to another bank to deposit this new cash into my personal account. I thought, surely, I will have to hurry to catch my bus to work after completing this second errand (a former language assistant in Spain once gave me a piece of advice: only try to run one errand per day, it will save you stress). Breaking this rule, which I often treat as law, felt rebellious and cocky. I thought I would end up regretting it, but decided to try my luck. <br /><br />Again, to my utter surprise, I walked back out of the second bank, €'s (Euros) deposited into my account, 15 minutes later. Trying not to get to excited about my seeming ascendance out of the realm of 'total foreigner' (I imagine a ladder with 'total foreigner' at the bottom and 'native' at the top), I decided to get coffee near the bus stop and try to go over my lessons for the day.<br /><br />I hopped on the bus, and then off the bus 20 minutes later in Cancelada. My lessons were in order. Listening to Macaco, I walked up the hill into Cancelada village. A strong gust of wind blew my hair into my face, so I paused to fix it. I glanced up at a mountain behind the village, and I was struck by how similar it looked to a mountain outside of Wenatchee. I felt at home. <br /><br />I felt nostalgia for Wenatchee and America, but at the same time I felt at home, right here in Spain.Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18423813542126775086noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5351957427307798092.post-84767491157244794272009-11-22T12:59:00.000-08:002009-11-22T15:09:36.369-08:00I saw some of my studentsat a discotheque last night. It was 'normal' for both parties to be there. (My oldest students are 16.) I also saw small children running around a bar at 2am. Their parents, and grandparents, were chatting in a corner, and Michael Jackson was blasting.Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18423813542126775086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5351957427307798092.post-83422318672290138892009-11-21T22:31:00.000-08:002009-11-22T10:51:36.318-08:00Icky FeetOne thing I've noticed about Spain: the feelings about feet.<br /><br />- being barefoot is unacceptable. In a situation where I would generally remain shoeless (say, just after waking up), I now wear house slippers.<br />- objects, like purses and backpacks, are not placed upon the floor. Once, a teacher at my school went so far as to pick my bag up from the floor and set it upon a table <span style="font-style: italic;">for</span> me. Special <a href="http://img.splendora.com/files/luxelink.jpg">purse hooks</a> are used by many women to prevent purses from sitting on the floor while at a restaurant.<br />- floors are mopped every few days. This is a combination of the fact that every single floor is made of the same faux-marble white tile that highlights every fleck of dirt, and (I think) the feeling that feet are unclean.<br /><br />These observations could suggest that Spaniards are somehow 'cleaner' than Americans because of their awareness about the germs that might inhabit the feet/floor, but I don't think it works quite like that. While precautions are high surrounding these lower appendages, hand-washing is at a minimum. I think it all evens out.<br /><br />What do I do? Well, I'm torn between adapting this particular Spanish trait, and rejecting it. Thus, my actions are inconsistent and a bit odd. I always wear some form of shoes, because that one seems most important, but I can't quite decide what to do about contact between my bag and the floor. So, sometimes it's on the floor, sometimes it's on a chair, and sometimes I switch it back and forth. (I'm only half joking about this.) And I'm completely unable to take up mopping every few days. That would be far too much work. Partial adaptation seems sufficient, for now.<br /><br />Full adaptation may be further in the future.Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18423813542126775086noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5351957427307798092.post-26438183809215719802009-11-19T05:46:00.001-08:002009-11-19T06:27:08.208-08:00AMERICA FOR CHRISTMAS!I didn't even realize I wanted to come to America for Christmas until the chance was offered to me (by a very generous sister), but YAYAYAYAY my excitement is growing. It's not that I'm especially homesick, or that I dislike living in Spain. It's quite the opposite. <br /><br />Traveling is fun, speaking Spanish is always interesting, and I like being here in Spain, but there's a different aura to <span style="font-style: italic;">home</span>. I think I'm more excited to go 'home' than I am to go to Barcelona (Dec 3-7) or London (March 11-14), even though I really love traveling. Home is different. I know what to expect from it, and I know that I like it.<br /><br />So, home, I'll see you on December 18.Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18423813542126775086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5351957427307798092.post-55622394804314619722009-11-07T11:18:00.000-08:002009-11-11T14:26:43.615-08:00This is, by far, the hardest thing I've ever done. I've moved to a foreign country where I know absolutely no one, and I'm trying to do a job that I have no idea how to do. I'm on the most extreme emotional roller coaster that I've ever experienced. Small things, both good and bad, seem amplified. I meet someone cool, and I'm high as a kite, my heart is pounding, and I feel like <span style="font-style: italic;">everything will be alright</span>. Or, my students are talkative and won't pay attention to me, and I'm down in the gutter, nearly crying in the classroom. <br /><br />It's challenging in nearly every way. Constant translation is tiring, but it's a requirement for daily life. To meet new people and make friends, which I so dearly want to have, means that I must be outgoing and confident, which I usually am not. To teach my students English, which is the job I am paid to do, I need to entertain and motivate large groups of early teens who are <span style="font-style: italic;">required</span> to take the class I'm teaching (thus, many are not interested in what I have to say).<br /><br />It's intense, but it's getting easier. There are fewer frustrating situations, because I'm learning how to avoid making the same mistakes, and there are more uplifting situations -- whether I like it or not, I have to be outgoing sometimes, and I really have met some great people. Sometimes it's rough, but that would happen anywhere in the world. Any anyway, it makes the sweet times all the more enjoyable.Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18423813542126775086noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5351957427307798092.post-36462879349289860612009-10-31T12:34:00.000-07:002009-10-31T20:35:55.077-07:00Fright NightHalloween exists in Spain. Transferred from Ireland to the United States during the 1800s, it has jumped back over the pond, invading Spain about 10 years ago. I was invited to a costume party on Thursday, but assuming I would throw some clothes together out of my closet and find some cheap accessories at a Halloween store, I didn't think anything of it. I forgot to take one thing into account: while people in Spain celebrate 'Halloween', it is not necessarily like Halloween in the States. Indeed, Halloween in Spain is slightly different. And while the difference is slight, it is a very important detail.<br /><br />Halloween costumes in Spain <span style="font-style: italic;">must</span> be scary. No question. None of that 'princess' or 'doctor' stuff like in the States. You must be creepy. Spooky. Evil. <span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br />I</span> had never even been anything scary for Halloween (me, the American!). What was I to do? After a purchase of vampire teeth and an effort to soften them up in boiling water, which ended in failure and destroyed vampire teeth, I was at a loss. Luckily, Savannah came to the rescue. The solution? Makeup! She dressed us up as 'dead' (aka: dark eye makeup and fake blood to create a zombie-like appearance). We were pretty creepy looking, don't you think?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2218/4060966149_24c9fd396d_b.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 384px; height: 462px;" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2218/4060966149_24c9fd396d_b.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>(Josh, in the middle, has some vampire teeth in his pocket, thus making his outfit 'scary'.)Alisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18423813542126775086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5351957427307798092.post-81048422536061067962009-10-13T09:29:00.000-07:002009-10-13T13:48:43.016-07:00ForeignerWalking into the bus station in <a href="http://maps.google.es/maps?hl=es&client=firefox-a&q=almeria+spain&ie=UTF8&gl=es&ei=fqvUStbRC8eMjAezxqT9Aw&ved=0CAwQ8gEwAA&hq=&hnear=Almer%C3%ADa,+Andaluc%C3%ADa&z=10">Almería</a>, I was dead tired and incredibly hungry. I had woken up just after 6 am, after drifting off to sleep with earplugs in place around 1 am. There was no food to be found in Gus's <a href="http://maps.google.es/maps?f=q&source=s_q&hl=es&geocode=&q=garrucha+spain&sll=36.840164,-2.467922&sspn=0.42973,0.939331&gl=es&ie=UTF8&hq=&hnear=Garrucha,+Almer%C3%ADa,+Andaluc%C3%ADa&z=13">Garrucha</a> apartment that morning, because we forgot that nearly every store would be closed on Sunday in such a small town. <a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2449/4005493610_f11efc278b.jpg">Gus</a> invited <a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2619/4004724509_a65a975f92.jpg">Stephen</a>, <a href="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3477/4004771443_9141b9e186.jpg">Emily</a>, and I to visit his apartment in Almería province for the weekend, and we were all friends from the International Studies major at UW. We spent the weekend lounging on the beach and comparing stories of our lives teaching English here in Spain, but it was time to trek home on Monday morning. Stephen, Emily and I hoofed it to the street-side bus stop on the other end of town and caught the 7 am bus to Madrid. I planned to hop off this bus at the next stop, in <a href="http://maps.google.es/maps?f=q&source=s_q&hl=es&geocode=&q=vera+spain&sll=37.17925,-1.821901&sspn=0.053477,0.117416&gl=es&ie=UTF8&hq=&hnear=Vera,+Almer%C3%ADa,+Andaluc%C3%ADa&z=12">Vera</a>, and did not purchase a ticket beforehand in hopes of paying the driver directly. The bus driver was not pleased about this assumption, but told me to '<span style="font-style: italic;">sube, sube</span>' onto the bus anyway. Once in Vera, a mere 15 minutes later, I bid my farewell to Stephen and Emily, and they continued on to Madrid.<br /><br />The Vera bus station was deserted, and, still dark during the 7 o'clock hour, it seemed a bit sketchy. The ticket booth should have been open, but I had forgotten about the holiday. Monday October 12, the day Columbus landed on North America, is a national holiday in Spain. Many stores and services do not open on national holidays here, and this ticket booth would not open until much later in the day. So, I resorted to waiting at the nearly deserted bus stop. The sun began to rise, and more travelers arrived at the stop. I spoke to a well-dressed lady who was also waiting for a bus to Almería, and we chatted for a bit. I am always labeled as either French or British by Spaniards (French before I speak, British after they hear my accent when speaking Spanish), and this woman was no exception. '<span style="font-style: italic;">No, soy de Estados Unidos, de Seattle.</span>' '<span style="font-style: italic;">Vale. Seetle?</span>' '<span style="font-style: italic;">Si</span>.' She continued to tell me that her brother had been to New York. Very far from Seattle, so I explained the geographical location of Seattle. Yes, she had seen the city on a map. I didn't bother to tell her that <span style="font-style: italic;">I've</span> never been to New York, because that fact is usually far too shocking to non-Americans.<br /><br />The anointed bus arrived, after many others which were not Almería-bound. This bus driver was even less pleased about my lack of a ticket, but 'I didn't know the station would be closed!' Prior to this trip, I didn't consider that the drivers would be unwilling to accept my money, but this must be a security measure. I promised to pay in Almería, and he let me aboard. I think the intense fear displayed on my face when the driver first refused me elicited some pity. Thus, I arrived in Almería 1.5 hours later.<br /><br />I thought the most difficult portion of my journey was over, because I had returned to familiar territory. For the most part, I was right. But, I was still incredibly hungry, and likely donning a rather ragged appearance, so I headed to the food court. Patrons were crowded around an extensive counter, so I waited behind and eventually reached the front. I stood patiently at the counter, deciding between a packaged donut, a cheese sandwich, and a coffee. Everything else consisted of mainly meat. I decided to order all of my options, and continued to wait patiently. None of the workers on the other side of the counter paid me any attention, but it seemed that they had some arrangement for the order in which they helped patrons.<br /><br />I was wrong. Patience is not a virtue. Not at the Almería bus station food court, at least. They were helping everyone <span style="font-style: italic;">except</span> me! I was completely ignored. Was it because I looked like a ragged backpacker? Because they could tell I was foreign? Or because I wasn't flicking my fingers at the employees? I wasn't giving up. Like I said, I was <span style="font-style: italic;">really </span>hungry, and this would be my last chance to get food before a five hour bus ride to <a href="http://maps.google.es/maps?f=q&source=s_q&hl=es&geocode=&q=malaga+spain&sll=37.246863,-1.868238&sspn=0.106859,0.234833&gl=es&ie=UTF8&hq=&hnear=M%C3%A1laga,+Andaluc%C3%ADa&z=10">Málaga</a>. There seemed to be some code between the patrons and food court workers, but it remains a mystery to me. I tried talking to a lady behind the counter even though she hadn't asked for my order, and she told me to wait. She went on to take orders from two other patrons. A Spanish woman appeared next to me at the counter, was helped almost immediately, and ordered two coffees and <span style="font-style: italic;">my</span> donut (by this time, I had given up ordering the coffee and the sandwich, because my bus was about to leave). There was only one plain donut in sight, and I wanted it. I piped up, the woman understood, and they let me have the plain donut. The worker extracted another plain donut from a hidden cupboard under the counter, and gave it to the woman. I paid the €0.80 for the donut and stalked off to the bus.<br /><br />I made it home alive, after seven more hours on two buses, and I was able to obtain more food from a pleasant little shop at a bus pit stop with very nice employees. I also got to visit a <span style="font-style: italic;">Corte Inglés</span> department store during my layover in Málaga. It's one of the most massive stores I've ever seen, with products ranging from cell phones to musical instruments to weaponry, as well as a large clothing section that reminds me of Nordstrom. It's similar to Sears, but with many more levels and products (this <span style="font-style: italic;">Corte Inglés</span> had at least 4 floors, but probably more; I didn't have time to check them all out). I found lip balm, a difficult product to track down in Spain, in the cosmetics section. The store felt a bit like home, and it was comforting to wander around the shiny aisles after my hectic day.<br /><br />I'm leaning toward the conclusion that the Almería food court employees were unwilling to help me because it would have required extra effort on their part. They would have had to listen through my accent and speak slowly to me. Indeed, I would have had to wait a very long time to get a sandwich and coffee.<br /><br />Lessons learned:<br />1. buy bus tickets before trying to get on the bus<br />2. carry food while travelingAlisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18423813542126775086noreply@blogger.com3