I’ve officially left Spain, and am now sitting on an eight-hour Aer Lingus flight with just enough room to open my laptop half-way and bang out my last blog entry until I head back to Europe. Other than the screaming two year-old two rows in front of me who is doing a marvelous job of enraging the young couple with their chairs in my lap who keep are actively attempting to start a family of their own, the flight’s been pretty uneventful.
As you may remember, my friend Steve finished up his work at Oxford about a week before classes ended in Granada, so he paid a quick visit to the south of Spain. The first two days he was with me, the weather was the coldest it’s been in Granada since 1951; I know this, not only because it was in the paper, but also because the three old men waiting with me in the barber shop the other day couldn’t come up with a more interesting topic to discuss. The last day there, though, was marvelous, and after finishing my last exam, we walked around Granada in 60 degree temperatures, up towards the Alhambra, around the palace where the wild peacocks roam, and then out onto the terrace of the Alhambra Palace Hotel, built in the early 1900’s as the place to stay in Granada, for one last café con leche. It’s gone down hill a bit, but the lobby is still stunning, and the views out back overlooking the Mediterranean, the snowcapped Sierra Nevada and the sprawling architecture of the city simply can’t be beat.
Then, of course, it dawned on me that I actually had to leave the city, so I literally ran back to my apartment (stopping by two separate bakeries on the way for Christmas goodies for home) to finish throwing stuff into my suitcases. My señora made us each a bocadillo for the road because she had become so enamored with Steve the two days he was over for lunch, so that bag, in addition to my three suitcases, backpack with dangling running shoes and bagful of assorted footware required me to enlist Steve’s help just to make it to the elevator – and I don’t want comments! Most of my luggage was taken up with presents! After hitting my señora with my running shoes and dropping several bags, we were out on the street. Then it was into the taxi and to my program’s office for the goodbye party. (To be honest, the whole week had been filled with goodbye parties for those of us who weren’t waiting until the last day to leave; I just couldn’t make it to any of them with the exception of the last night, when we all went out and then studied for our EU final with the help of some good Spanish rioja, a very effective European study technique.) We weren’t at the goodbye party two minutes when Steve realized that he had lost his passport at some point on our walk. I was on the phone with several hotels and park management services while Steve contemplated calling his local members of congress – you must realize that this is happening just over an hour before we’re to leave for Barcelona. We decide to go to the airport anyway after a series of rushed goodbyes to everyone in the program and a farewell shot of the Spanish holiday liqueur of choice, anis, where Steve manages to get onto a plane using his military ID and birth certificate, before he finds his passport in his pocket.
We made the most of our night in Barcelona, though paid 20E for a two-minute taxi to the hotel because it was so late. After checking into our hotel, finding the room they had given us in shambles due to construction, re-checking into an upgraded “Elite” suite with the largest bed I’ve ever seen in my life because we managed to charm the check-in girl, we got another taxi and headed over to La Sagrada Familia, the famous church in Barcelona that Steve hadn’t yet seen. It wasn’t lit up (strange…) but it was worth it. After being cursed by a Slavic man, accosted by prostitutes and avoiding beer-sellers on Las Ramblas, we made it to the Hard Rock Café (why, I don’t know), where I paid 13E for a chicken sandwich at around 1:30 in the morning.
And here I am. Our flight was delayed, so at the moment I’m about 4 hours into the 7 hour flight. See you soon.
Friday, 19 December 2008
Thursday, 11 December 2008
España
Going through some of my notes from the intensive course that I took at the beginning of the semester, I came across some quotes I had written down from the class that made me laugh. One, for example, was of a girl in the class who remarked to the professor (a 30-something mother of two young boys with a PhD), "Gosh! You always have so much energy in class!" to which our professor replied, "Well, yeah, it's because I do coke before class starts." Another comes from the review session we had before our exam. The profa. remarked, "...so those questions will all be about that topic. Now then, you need to know that I'll be leaving during your exam to get coffee - that's the time you should copy and ask each other questions." I muttered under my breath, "I love Spain...," which she heard, and replied, "that's why we live here."
Of course, my professor was joking - at least about the drugs. These things, however, could never be said in an American classroom - certainly not by a professor who is still up for tenure. Things are much more laid-back here. I also notice this in the way that every class starts about five or ten minutes late, one of my professors would occasionally be at his beach house and simply not come to class, and the way that everything shuts down for three hours in the middle of the day. It's not bad, though, just different, once you get into it. I started thinking about all of this yesterday, the last day of classes before our exams started. This was after last weekend when I had Friday off, Saturday everything was closed for Constitution Day, Sunday everything was closed because it was Sunday, and Monday everything was closed because it was the day of the Immaculate Conception. The country was shut down for three days in a row! Then, yesterday class was interrupted by the sound of champagne corks (more accurately, cava corks, Spain's home-grown version of the French stuff) popping. We all left the classroom to find some sort of celebration going on for everyone in the atrium, with long tables set up around the Christmas tree, candles and glowing mini tree-shaped lights hanging from the ceiling, and an enormous manger scene of the Most Holy Family complete with real sand. On the tables were almond sweets and cookies made by local nuns and hundreds of glasses of wine. This was all at about 12 noon, and in a government sponsored school no less! Turns out it was all for some sports team-related awards ceremony, but that didn't stop everyone from imbibing a little.
Someone mentioned to me once that Spain is about where the US was 40 to 50 years ago in terms of it's culture. I don't think that's true with everything - they're a lot more liberal here in regards to some things - but they're certainly not what you would call politically correct. Sometimes I think it's great and refreshing, but not everyone's always comfortable with it. For example, there are several Jewish people in the program, and Granada in itself is still quite a center of Islamic culture, despite the best efforts of the Catholic kings to quash that. That doesn't stop anyone from putting up huge Belenes (Bethlehems, essentially walk-through diorama towns) on the street, holy families on the roofs of department stores, and Christmas trees in the universities. My "brother" told me that Catholicism is especially alive and well here because it was so hard won; I can believe that, but it was back in 1492. I'm having a great time with it, though. Just an observation.
This is exam week, so I don't plan on being too interesting in the next few days.
Of course, my professor was joking - at least about the drugs. These things, however, could never be said in an American classroom - certainly not by a professor who is still up for tenure. Things are much more laid-back here. I also notice this in the way that every class starts about five or ten minutes late, one of my professors would occasionally be at his beach house and simply not come to class, and the way that everything shuts down for three hours in the middle of the day. It's not bad, though, just different, once you get into it. I started thinking about all of this yesterday, the last day of classes before our exams started. This was after last weekend when I had Friday off, Saturday everything was closed for Constitution Day, Sunday everything was closed because it was Sunday, and Monday everything was closed because it was the day of the Immaculate Conception. The country was shut down for three days in a row! Then, yesterday class was interrupted by the sound of champagne corks (more accurately, cava corks, Spain's home-grown version of the French stuff) popping. We all left the classroom to find some sort of celebration going on for everyone in the atrium, with long tables set up around the Christmas tree, candles and glowing mini tree-shaped lights hanging from the ceiling, and an enormous manger scene of the Most Holy Family complete with real sand. On the tables were almond sweets and cookies made by local nuns and hundreds of glasses of wine. This was all at about 12 noon, and in a government sponsored school no less! Turns out it was all for some sports team-related awards ceremony, but that didn't stop everyone from imbibing a little.
Someone mentioned to me once that Spain is about where the US was 40 to 50 years ago in terms of it's culture. I don't think that's true with everything - they're a lot more liberal here in regards to some things - but they're certainly not what you would call politically correct. Sometimes I think it's great and refreshing, but not everyone's always comfortable with it. For example, there are several Jewish people in the program, and Granada in itself is still quite a center of Islamic culture, despite the best efforts of the Catholic kings to quash that. That doesn't stop anyone from putting up huge Belenes (Bethlehems, essentially walk-through diorama towns) on the street, holy families on the roofs of department stores, and Christmas trees in the universities. My "brother" told me that Catholicism is especially alive and well here because it was so hard won; I can believe that, but it was back in 1492. I'm having a great time with it, though. Just an observation.
This is exam week, so I don't plan on being too interesting in the next few days.
Monday, 1 December 2008
Acción de gracias y la Sierra Nevada
Happy Thanksgiving! It's been a busy week or so. I forgot to mention that two weekends ago I went to the Sierra Nevada (the mountain chain that surrounds Granada) to go skiing - yes, skiing during the third week in November when it was still 60 degrees in the city. It was phenomenal, and the best ski trip I'd ever been on. The ski station is just at the base of the tallest mountain on the Iberian peninsula, the Mulhacén, and I was up somewhere around 10,900 feet. Almost eleven-thousand feet! We were skiing above the clouds, until we skied through them, which was cold and a little scary, due to the lack of visibility. They say that, on a clear day from the top, you can see the Straight of Gibraltar and Africa. Very, very cool, but not too cold - it was only around 50 degrees the whole day. Besides the altitude sickness right when we got there, the day was perfect. The pistes even look like a James Bond set, complete with an enormous satellite dish control center, an observatory, and several concrete, man-made lakes. That night, the five of us who went bundled in for the night in an apartment which we rented, complete with kitchenette, and made plastic-tasting pizza, spaghetti, nachos, and hot chocolate with peppermint schnapps (this was a problem when the milk ran out and we started mixing peppermint schnapps with the cocoa powder and ice). All in all, not a bad trip.
The whole group.
Thanksgiving was also an adventure. It started out the night before the holiday, when one of my friends reminded me of a restaurant we had tried to eat at before based on the recommendation of a Scottish English professor who was in one of my Spanish classes at the beginning of the year, but which never seemed to be open when we were hungry. The restaurant (which everyone calls Sue's Place) is run by an English woman, expatriated to Spain to bring the joy of Sunday English roasts to all Granadinos. We figured, hey, if they do Sunday roasts, maybe she's doing something for Thanksgiving. She wasn't. However, we stalked Sue, begged her to help out our little group of homesick Americans, and she decided to see what she could do in the next 24 hours to find us a turkey. As it turned out, we had shrimp (a Spanish holiday staple), an electric-green and delicious soup, turkey, mashed potatoes, her attempt at stuffing, steamed vegetables(!!!), and homemade apple pie. Not entirely traditional, but wonderful just the same.
The day after Thanksgiving, my friend Curstin and I decided to be lazy and not to go skiing again like a large portion of the group - I counted it as a blessing that I didn't do some serious damage to myself the first time around - so we checked out the Science Park, practically just behind my house. This is a large science center, perfect for huge school groups. It was pretty unremarkable, though a great way to pass an afternoon. They are very excited about the recent opening of Spain's base in the Antarctic, and had a whole exhibit on the base station, complete with a walk in a blast freezer which reminded me a lot of Maine - I had forgotten what a pleasure it is to feel the inside of your nose seize up and freeze every time you take in a breath. It was also a pleasure to watch the 85 year-old Spanish abuelitas in their furs totter through. My two favorite parts were the butterfly jungle, and this great exhibition that they had going on which consisted of little mechanical dioramas made out of wood and metal which acted out a little scene powered by a hand crank - I spent about an hour in there.
Surgery on "Anatomy Jane," as Curstin put it. Does anyone get that reference? (Nicole? If you had access to a TV down there...)
This past weekend was when our program had decided to recreate Thanksgiving for us, in the mountains around Granada. We went to the Alpujarra, a beautiful region of lush green fields, olive groves, lemon trees, persimmons (which are great!), magical streams, and white villages. The goal was to go hiking the first day, stay in a beautiful country hotel whose chef we bribed to make three turkeys, visit three more towns the next day, hike around a bit more, and head home. It almost worked out.
The first day was great, if not a little chilly.
This first stream tasted like blood because of the insanely high iron content (look at the color of the rocks), but was apparently great for my liver and perhaps getting rid of evil spirits. Another one I tried I really liked, and was naturally carbonated by the rocks it passed through. Not quite Perrier, but...
More ham than I've ever cared to see in my life. This is a ham-drying center in the highest village in Europe (Trevélez, 4,900 feet) which is renowned for it's ham. Apparently, the place is so cold the whole year that they can dry ham naturally without using refrigerators. The ham was pretty good, but imagine the smell in there.
Thanksgiving (and a legit one at that, with homemade cranberry sauce!) before...
...and the aftermath.
The next morning, after going directly to bed after that disgustingly wonderful meal, we woke to find a fresh eight or nine inches of snow, no power, and no way to get the bus up the mountain. Instead, we all ate about five breakfasts, read, talked, played board games, and put our inadequate clothing on to go play in the snow. It reminded me of the storms during the summer that knock out the power just long enough for you to dig out the candles, be forced to turn the TV off, and reconnect with your family. It was great. The hotel itself was run by a warm family with a dog, had piles of books everywhere to read in about 12 languages, was immaculately clean, and just rustic enough. We finally got out of there around noon, but not before some good snowball fights and romps in the snow with the puppy.
A persimmon tree. Click on it - the colors are great.
If the ride up the mountain was bad, the ride down, on hairpin turns about which you usually read in motoring magazines which test Italian sports cars, in a bus which needed to put chains on its tires just to move a foot forward before starting a series of backwards slides, was hellish. But we made it. We were able only to hit up one of the towns on our itinerary, Pampaneira. Many of the towns in the Alpujarra have the -eira ending, which is really unusual in Spanish. This is a remnant of Gallego, the language of the Celtic/Spanish people from Spain's north Atlantic coastal region, Galicia, which itself was colonized by a combination of immigrants from the present day UK and Ireland and mainstream Roman-influenced Iberians. After the Catholic Kings kicked the Moors out of Granada in 1492, some Arabs retreated to the mountains around the city. After they were evicted from there as well, there was a massive, state-sponsored immigration in the 16th century of people from Galicia to the towns, which took on new names. At least I thought it was interesting.
The whole group.Thanksgiving was also an adventure. It started out the night before the holiday, when one of my friends reminded me of a restaurant we had tried to eat at before based on the recommendation of a Scottish English professor who was in one of my Spanish classes at the beginning of the year, but which never seemed to be open when we were hungry. The restaurant (which everyone calls Sue's Place) is run by an English woman, expatriated to Spain to bring the joy of Sunday English roasts to all Granadinos. We figured, hey, if they do Sunday roasts, maybe she's doing something for Thanksgiving. She wasn't. However, we stalked Sue, begged her to help out our little group of homesick Americans, and she decided to see what she could do in the next 24 hours to find us a turkey. As it turned out, we had shrimp (a Spanish holiday staple), an electric-green and delicious soup, turkey, mashed potatoes, her attempt at stuffing, steamed vegetables(!!!), and homemade apple pie. Not entirely traditional, but wonderful just the same.
The day after Thanksgiving, my friend Curstin and I decided to be lazy and not to go skiing again like a large portion of the group - I counted it as a blessing that I didn't do some serious damage to myself the first time around - so we checked out the Science Park, practically just behind my house. This is a large science center, perfect for huge school groups. It was pretty unremarkable, though a great way to pass an afternoon. They are very excited about the recent opening of Spain's base in the Antarctic, and had a whole exhibit on the base station, complete with a walk in a blast freezer which reminded me a lot of Maine - I had forgotten what a pleasure it is to feel the inside of your nose seize up and freeze every time you take in a breath. It was also a pleasure to watch the 85 year-old Spanish abuelitas in their furs totter through. My two favorite parts were the butterfly jungle, and this great exhibition that they had going on which consisted of little mechanical dioramas made out of wood and metal which acted out a little scene powered by a hand crank - I spent about an hour in there.
Surgery on "Anatomy Jane," as Curstin put it. Does anyone get that reference? (Nicole? If you had access to a TV down there...)This past weekend was when our program had decided to recreate Thanksgiving for us, in the mountains around Granada. We went to the Alpujarra, a beautiful region of lush green fields, olive groves, lemon trees, persimmons (which are great!), magical streams, and white villages. The goal was to go hiking the first day, stay in a beautiful country hotel whose chef we bribed to make three turkeys, visit three more towns the next day, hike around a bit more, and head home. It almost worked out.
The first day was great, if not a little chilly.
This first stream tasted like blood because of the insanely high iron content (look at the color of the rocks), but was apparently great for my liver and perhaps getting rid of evil spirits. Another one I tried I really liked, and was naturally carbonated by the rocks it passed through. Not quite Perrier, but...
More ham than I've ever cared to see in my life. This is a ham-drying center in the highest village in Europe (Trevélez, 4,900 feet) which is renowned for it's ham. Apparently, the place is so cold the whole year that they can dry ham naturally without using refrigerators. The ham was pretty good, but imagine the smell in there.
Thanksgiving (and a legit one at that, with homemade cranberry sauce!) before...
...and the aftermath.The next morning, after going directly to bed after that disgustingly wonderful meal, we woke to find a fresh eight or nine inches of snow, no power, and no way to get the bus up the mountain. Instead, we all ate about five breakfasts, read, talked, played board games, and put our inadequate clothing on to go play in the snow. It reminded me of the storms during the summer that knock out the power just long enough for you to dig out the candles, be forced to turn the TV off, and reconnect with your family. It was great. The hotel itself was run by a warm family with a dog, had piles of books everywhere to read in about 12 languages, was immaculately clean, and just rustic enough. We finally got out of there around noon, but not before some good snowball fights and romps in the snow with the puppy.
A persimmon tree. Click on it - the colors are great.If the ride up the mountain was bad, the ride down, on hairpin turns about which you usually read in motoring magazines which test Italian sports cars, in a bus which needed to put chains on its tires just to move a foot forward before starting a series of backwards slides, was hellish. But we made it. We were able only to hit up one of the towns on our itinerary, Pampaneira. Many of the towns in the Alpujarra have the -eira ending, which is really unusual in Spanish. This is a remnant of Gallego, the language of the Celtic/Spanish people from Spain's north Atlantic coastal region, Galicia, which itself was colonized by a combination of immigrants from the present day UK and Ireland and mainstream Roman-influenced Iberians. After the Catholic Kings kicked the Moors out of Granada in 1492, some Arabs retreated to the mountains around the city. After they were evicted from there as well, there was a massive, state-sponsored immigration in the 16th century of people from Galicia to the towns, which took on new names. At least I thought it was interesting.
Monday, 24 November 2008
Familia
I had a very sad conversation with my host mother today; better said, our conversation was poignant for me, and simply the way things are for her. We had just sat down to dinner, while the muffled announcement of her lottery numbers wafted into the room from the ever-present TV on behind us, to a meal of pea soup, chicken with vegetables, and homemade ricotta cake. This was after my tutoring session, and after a quick stop with some friends for two glasses of wine which, like usual, came with two little tapa sandwiches. Needless to say, at this point I can barely breathe. I decided, in an attempt to make conversation, to ask her about her Christmas traditions. She chuckled to herself quietly, and asked me where I meant - did I want to know what things were like back in Italy when she was a young girl, in Africa after she was married, or here in Spain where she raised her three boys? All of it, I said. Why not? We had a lot of food to work through.
Irma has never been one for Christmas. Back in Italy, it was just her and her mother, and as an only child growing up in a family where there obviously wasn't much money, she never expected much. Sure she would hear about big celebrations in big families, but it was never something that she really looked forward to. Italy is a "Catholic country" like Spain, which means that Christmas is the religious portion of the holiday, and Kings' Day, the day that the Three Wisemen finally made it with their gifts to baby Jesus, is the day that everyone gives presents. She skipped over Africa to tell me about Spain with her boys; Irma and her husband owned several Italian restaurants here, a pizzeria, and a bakery, and after her husband died, she worked in a university residence hall feeding 50 students three times a day by herself. She told me that the family always tried to do something on Christmas, but the restaurants were still open and the bakery was always busy, and at the end of the long day serving hundreds of other families, there wasn't much spirit left in anyone to celebrate at home. Normally they'd open a bottle of wine, have some fried fish and maybe some chicken (Italian fish and chicken, she assured me), and get to bed. The kids always had a few presents on Kings' Day, but the family was never rich, and it was always better to have a nice meal or something made at home then something expensive which would be forgotten about in two months but which they would make payments on for the whole year.
These days, one of her sons lives his own life back in Italy, and she almost never gets over there to see him or her grandchildren. Her middle son, Neno, who lives with us, generally leaves his mom at home by herself on holidays and will go over to a friend's house, she thinks - she's not entirely sure where he ends up. Her youngest son, Juan Miguel, lives in Spain and has an English girlfriend with a huge family. He seems to love the holidays, she says, but she never goes with him, because "it's a rich family, and it's not like you can show up at the house with one hand in the other. I don't work anymore and neither does Neno, and holidays are expensive, such an effort." She also told me that she's "lost her taste for wine and beer," so there's not even that to celebrate with. These days, she says, she wakes up, starts making herself the dough for her ricotta and spinach ravioli, and gives herself the day off from housework. "Who would I go visit, honestly?" she told me. "Everyone I was friends with is dead, and so is my husband. I guess I could have a get-together in the cemetery with my ravioli." This makes us both laugh, her genuinely, and me self-consciously.
The great thing about Irma is that she's not one of those older people who feel bad for themselves and want you to do the same - in fact, she seems happy if not extatic about life, and keeps herself involved with tai chi and water aerobics three times a week. Not your typical 75 year-old. "When you grow up not really knowing something, not really celebrating a holiday, you don't miss it." An interesting point. It made me that much more thankful for my own traditions. In a year when I'm not at home much and I'm missing events like Thanksgiving, birthdays, and funerals, family and friends have been on my mind a lot. In an effort to avoid making this sound like a holiday-themed after-school special, I'll spare you anything too mushy, but really, the people are what's important. At least we have them. Life is too short to get hung-up on problems with logistics, material stuff, the fact that our families are insane and whatnot. Presents are fun, and if I don't have a re-creation of Thanksgiving bundled with everything wonderful about Christmas when I get home I'll be sorely disappointed, but the thing I'm most looking forward to this year is being home with my family, whether I'm related to them by blood or not.
Irma has never been one for Christmas. Back in Italy, it was just her and her mother, and as an only child growing up in a family where there obviously wasn't much money, she never expected much. Sure she would hear about big celebrations in big families, but it was never something that she really looked forward to. Italy is a "Catholic country" like Spain, which means that Christmas is the religious portion of the holiday, and Kings' Day, the day that the Three Wisemen finally made it with their gifts to baby Jesus, is the day that everyone gives presents. She skipped over Africa to tell me about Spain with her boys; Irma and her husband owned several Italian restaurants here, a pizzeria, and a bakery, and after her husband died, she worked in a university residence hall feeding 50 students three times a day by herself. She told me that the family always tried to do something on Christmas, but the restaurants were still open and the bakery was always busy, and at the end of the long day serving hundreds of other families, there wasn't much spirit left in anyone to celebrate at home. Normally they'd open a bottle of wine, have some fried fish and maybe some chicken (Italian fish and chicken, she assured me), and get to bed. The kids always had a few presents on Kings' Day, but the family was never rich, and it was always better to have a nice meal or something made at home then something expensive which would be forgotten about in two months but which they would make payments on for the whole year.
These days, one of her sons lives his own life back in Italy, and she almost never gets over there to see him or her grandchildren. Her middle son, Neno, who lives with us, generally leaves his mom at home by herself on holidays and will go over to a friend's house, she thinks - she's not entirely sure where he ends up. Her youngest son, Juan Miguel, lives in Spain and has an English girlfriend with a huge family. He seems to love the holidays, she says, but she never goes with him, because "it's a rich family, and it's not like you can show up at the house with one hand in the other. I don't work anymore and neither does Neno, and holidays are expensive, such an effort." She also told me that she's "lost her taste for wine and beer," so there's not even that to celebrate with. These days, she says, she wakes up, starts making herself the dough for her ricotta and spinach ravioli, and gives herself the day off from housework. "Who would I go visit, honestly?" she told me. "Everyone I was friends with is dead, and so is my husband. I guess I could have a get-together in the cemetery with my ravioli." This makes us both laugh, her genuinely, and me self-consciously.
The great thing about Irma is that she's not one of those older people who feel bad for themselves and want you to do the same - in fact, she seems happy if not extatic about life, and keeps herself involved with tai chi and water aerobics three times a week. Not your typical 75 year-old. "When you grow up not really knowing something, not really celebrating a holiday, you don't miss it." An interesting point. It made me that much more thankful for my own traditions. In a year when I'm not at home much and I'm missing events like Thanksgiving, birthdays, and funerals, family and friends have been on my mind a lot. In an effort to avoid making this sound like a holiday-themed after-school special, I'll spare you anything too mushy, but really, the people are what's important. At least we have them. Life is too short to get hung-up on problems with logistics, material stuff, the fact that our families are insane and whatnot. Presents are fun, and if I don't have a re-creation of Thanksgiving bundled with everything wonderful about Christmas when I get home I'll be sorely disappointed, but the thing I'm most looking forward to this year is being home with my family, whether I'm related to them by blood or not.
Tuesday, 18 November 2008
Edinburgo
Settle in with some Spanish hot chocolate for this one, people:
I've never, ever experienced a city like Edinburgh - and that's pronounced Edinborough, for those of you, like myself, a bit out of practise with the Scottish brough. It's hard to describe the city, since it's really more of a collection of towns which kept bumping into each other rather than a a city with a consistent sense of identity. The most glaring example of this is the topographical complexity of it all, which is dominated by two ancient, volcanic mountains plopped down in the middle of everything. On one of them (Castle Rock) we find Edinburgh Castle, which, if I'm not mistaken, has it's roots in the 12th century. Today, it's picturesque, but not all that interesting - they use it as a military base. My friend Hannah, with whom I stayed while I was in the city, told me not to bother paying to go inside, so instead we climbed up the hill at night and had a spectacular view of the city. From that vantage point, we were in the middle of the original walled city, surrounded by the Flodden Wall built in the 16th century after city residents became paranoid about another English attack after the Battle of Flodden. Unfortunately for the Edinburgers (I just coined that - does that work?), the wall was only one mile by one-fourth of a mile, and absolutely no one wanted to live outside of it. This wasn't a big problem, until the city became one of the most populous in Europe in the 17th century. At that point, the residents started digging down, making a creepy "underground city" (more on that later), and building up, creating some of the first skyscrapers at around 14 stories. Thankfully at about the same time, the British were basically in control of everything anyway, so they built a bridge over the loch in the middle of the city and built the New Town just outside the wall, which looks a lot like London, and opened things up a bit.
Near to my friend's dorm is Arthur's Seat, a really, really big hill which is covered in lush, green golfing grass. It's the epitome of the craggy Scottish landscape, and offers great views over the city. It's name actually comes from the corruption of some Scottish gaelic construction, but it's fun to think that it refers to King Arthur. You can literally be in a Starbucks one minute, swing by the local H&M, and ten minutes later be hiking in the middle of this wind-ravaged, rocky, natural park. It used to belong to the royal family as the hunting grounds attached to Holyrood Palace, the Queen's official residence when she's in Scotland, but it's open now. The palace was pretty cool, too, as it was the former home of Mary Queen of Scots, and is now the site of the Queen's famous Garden Party. From the top of Arthur's Seat (which my friend and I were nearly blown off of - we've got a picture of us hanging on to our jackets, which are sticking out parallel to the ground while we were pelted by mist yet, strangely, didn't get wet - welcome to Scottish weather...) I could see the coastline and the seaport of Leith, still all part of Edinburgh. On the way down, we passed through Duddingston, an ancient little village in the heart of the city at the base of the former hunting grounds, with, they say, the oldest pub in Scotland. This is in the middle of a very modern city!
This is the famous café where JK Rowling started writing the Harry Potter books. I became a bit disillusioned with her when I saw the view out of the back of the place (see picture below), which spoke volumes as to the inspiration for much of her work. It's OK, though, I love the books anyway.
That's Edinburgh Castle in the background. Click on this guy.
I also made my way to Roslin, a little town in the country outside of the city made famous by the book The DaVinci Code and the recent movie adaptation with Tom Hanks. In it you'll find Rosslyn Chapel, which is without a doubt one of the most magical places I've ever been. It's a chapel that was constructed through a partnership between the Knights Templar (an ancient religious order) and (perhaps) the Freemasons in the middle of the 15th century, and every single surface in it is covered in exquisite carvings, codes, and secret meanings. There are, obviously, hundreds of legends to go with it all, but perhaps the most intriguing is that the Holy Grail, or perhaps the body/head of Christ, is hidden in the secret chamber under the chapel that they found with sonar but which no one can seem to find a way into. I was lucky enough to be late for the tour, so I had the whole outside of the chapel to myself while 500 tourists packed into the church, and got in there again when it was nearly empty. Afterwards, I wandered around the graveyard and countryside, down to the crumbling Roslin Castle, hidden in the woods near a brook. It was pretty surreal. They are not happy to let you take pictures inside the chapel, but here's one from Wikipedia:
Now, originally, I was supposed to travel to Edinburgh with three friends from my program and my friend Steve who's in Oxford for the year, but through a series of events, I ended up flying with only one friend of mine from the program here in Granada, who was also going to visit a friend studying in the city. We got off the plane, and since I had a hotel for that first night by myself, decided that we would all meet up later in the night. That was before I realized that neither of the cellphones I had with me would work, and that I had no way to call anyone. I ran into a Boots pharmacy, the only thing open at around 10:00 at night there, and asked to buy a phonecard. Thirty minutes and several renditions of "All I Want for Christmas" by Mariah Carey later, they had located one for me (apparently, in Edinburgh as in much of Europe without the benefit of Thanksgiving as a buffer, the Christmas decorations have been up since September, and the night that I stopped in was a special "VIP Shopping Evening," the only reason the store was open). Not that my phonecard helped me to call Julianne, because her phone didn't work either. Needless to say, that first night I had a beer and cheeseburger in a pub by myself, and I resigned myself to not seeing my friend for the weekend. However, after I toured the chapel and had walked around a while, I was hungry, and in need of a pub. I stopped at the only option in town, and was shocked while sitting at the bar to notice Julianne and her friend walk in the door. It was the one and only time I saw her that weekend, but the coincidence, the fact that we met up in a tiny pub in a tiny town outside of the city, was creepy.
What else happened that weekend? I saw the James Bond movie because it was released in the UK before anywhere else and, finally, was a movie that was not dubbed, but the script was bad and it was more like a Bourne Identity movie than a Bond flick. Worth seeing, but a little disappointing. We went on a ghost tour of some of the underground vaults beneath the city where plague victims were thrown and where the poor lived when the city became overpopulated. It was more informative than scary, except when we were in one room in particular, where there is said to lurk the "Southbridge Entity," and it was really, really cold. Spooky. Hannah and I cooked twice, the first time improvising with some chicken and herbs that I didn't eat much of because I was full from the pub but was still quite tasty, and the next morning a lovely tomato and cheese omlette with crumpets. I was impressed with our skills. I also discovered that I own a drug store in the city.
I think I enjoyed Edinburgh more than any other city I've visited in Europe on this trip. It's got an amazing combination of city and country, mountain and sea, creepy-spooky-scary-Halloweeny architecture and stories about body-snatchers, and lovely, warm people. It was a good time.
I've never, ever experienced a city like Edinburgh - and that's pronounced Edinborough, for those of you, like myself, a bit out of practise with the Scottish brough. It's hard to describe the city, since it's really more of a collection of towns which kept bumping into each other rather than a a city with a consistent sense of identity. The most glaring example of this is the topographical complexity of it all, which is dominated by two ancient, volcanic mountains plopped down in the middle of everything. On one of them (Castle Rock) we find Edinburgh Castle, which, if I'm not mistaken, has it's roots in the 12th century. Today, it's picturesque, but not all that interesting - they use it as a military base. My friend Hannah, with whom I stayed while I was in the city, told me not to bother paying to go inside, so instead we climbed up the hill at night and had a spectacular view of the city. From that vantage point, we were in the middle of the original walled city, surrounded by the Flodden Wall built in the 16th century after city residents became paranoid about another English attack after the Battle of Flodden. Unfortunately for the Edinburgers (I just coined that - does that work?), the wall was only one mile by one-fourth of a mile, and absolutely no one wanted to live outside of it. This wasn't a big problem, until the city became one of the most populous in Europe in the 17th century. At that point, the residents started digging down, making a creepy "underground city" (more on that later), and building up, creating some of the first skyscrapers at around 14 stories. Thankfully at about the same time, the British were basically in control of everything anyway, so they built a bridge over the loch in the middle of the city and built the New Town just outside the wall, which looks a lot like London, and opened things up a bit.
Near to my friend's dorm is Arthur's Seat, a really, really big hill which is covered in lush, green golfing grass. It's the epitome of the craggy Scottish landscape, and offers great views over the city. It's name actually comes from the corruption of some Scottish gaelic construction, but it's fun to think that it refers to King Arthur. You can literally be in a Starbucks one minute, swing by the local H&M, and ten minutes later be hiking in the middle of this wind-ravaged, rocky, natural park. It used to belong to the royal family as the hunting grounds attached to Holyrood Palace, the Queen's official residence when she's in Scotland, but it's open now. The palace was pretty cool, too, as it was the former home of Mary Queen of Scots, and is now the site of the Queen's famous Garden Party. From the top of Arthur's Seat (which my friend and I were nearly blown off of - we've got a picture of us hanging on to our jackets, which are sticking out parallel to the ground while we were pelted by mist yet, strangely, didn't get wet - welcome to Scottish weather...) I could see the coastline and the seaport of Leith, still all part of Edinburgh. On the way down, we passed through Duddingston, an ancient little village in the heart of the city at the base of the former hunting grounds, with, they say, the oldest pub in Scotland. This is in the middle of a very modern city!
This is the famous café where JK Rowling started writing the Harry Potter books. I became a bit disillusioned with her when I saw the view out of the back of the place (see picture below), which spoke volumes as to the inspiration for much of her work. It's OK, though, I love the books anyway.
That's Edinburgh Castle in the background. Click on this guy.
I also made my way to Roslin, a little town in the country outside of the city made famous by the book The DaVinci Code and the recent movie adaptation with Tom Hanks. In it you'll find Rosslyn Chapel, which is without a doubt one of the most magical places I've ever been. It's a chapel that was constructed through a partnership between the Knights Templar (an ancient religious order) and (perhaps) the Freemasons in the middle of the 15th century, and every single surface in it is covered in exquisite carvings, codes, and secret meanings. There are, obviously, hundreds of legends to go with it all, but perhaps the most intriguing is that the Holy Grail, or perhaps the body/head of Christ, is hidden in the secret chamber under the chapel that they found with sonar but which no one can seem to find a way into. I was lucky enough to be late for the tour, so I had the whole outside of the chapel to myself while 500 tourists packed into the church, and got in there again when it was nearly empty. Afterwards, I wandered around the graveyard and countryside, down to the crumbling Roslin Castle, hidden in the woods near a brook. It was pretty surreal. They are not happy to let you take pictures inside the chapel, but here's one from Wikipedia:
Now, originally, I was supposed to travel to Edinburgh with three friends from my program and my friend Steve who's in Oxford for the year, but through a series of events, I ended up flying with only one friend of mine from the program here in Granada, who was also going to visit a friend studying in the city. We got off the plane, and since I had a hotel for that first night by myself, decided that we would all meet up later in the night. That was before I realized that neither of the cellphones I had with me would work, and that I had no way to call anyone. I ran into a Boots pharmacy, the only thing open at around 10:00 at night there, and asked to buy a phonecard. Thirty minutes and several renditions of "All I Want for Christmas" by Mariah Carey later, they had located one for me (apparently, in Edinburgh as in much of Europe without the benefit of Thanksgiving as a buffer, the Christmas decorations have been up since September, and the night that I stopped in was a special "VIP Shopping Evening," the only reason the store was open). Not that my phonecard helped me to call Julianne, because her phone didn't work either. Needless to say, that first night I had a beer and cheeseburger in a pub by myself, and I resigned myself to not seeing my friend for the weekend. However, after I toured the chapel and had walked around a while, I was hungry, and in need of a pub. I stopped at the only option in town, and was shocked while sitting at the bar to notice Julianne and her friend walk in the door. It was the one and only time I saw her that weekend, but the coincidence, the fact that we met up in a tiny pub in a tiny town outside of the city, was creepy.
What else happened that weekend? I saw the James Bond movie because it was released in the UK before anywhere else and, finally, was a movie that was not dubbed, but the script was bad and it was more like a Bourne Identity movie than a Bond flick. Worth seeing, but a little disappointing. We went on a ghost tour of some of the underground vaults beneath the city where plague victims were thrown and where the poor lived when the city became overpopulated. It was more informative than scary, except when we were in one room in particular, where there is said to lurk the "Southbridge Entity," and it was really, really cold. Spooky. Hannah and I cooked twice, the first time improvising with some chicken and herbs that I didn't eat much of because I was full from the pub but was still quite tasty, and the next morning a lovely tomato and cheese omlette with crumpets. I was impressed with our skills. I also discovered that I own a drug store in the city.
I think I enjoyed Edinburgh more than any other city I've visited in Europe on this trip. It's got an amazing combination of city and country, mountain and sea, creepy-spooky-scary-Halloweeny architecture and stories about body-snatchers, and lovely, warm people. It was a good time.
Monday, 10 November 2008
Barcelona
When I was younger, nothing excited me more than flying somewhere. It was really magical, going through the airport in a time when everything was less stressful, hopping on the plane with a backpack stuffed full of every CD I owned and several stuffed animals, a new pack of gum, and some cookies for snacks. In fact (strange tidbit about me), to this day I love the smell of diesel engines, because they remind me of the first airport shuttle bus I was ever on, which I still remember taking my mom and I from the parking lot to the terminal. The plane would start to take off, everything got incredibly loud, and I was thrust back into my seat to wait for that sinking feeling that meant we had left the ground. The window seat was always a necessity, and it always fascinated me that, a few hours after hopping on board in Hartford, we'd descend from above the clouds where it didn't even seem like we were moving, and be in Florida. In those days (I feel like I'm 50), the whole crew greeted you as you left the plane, and on more than one occasion I had a quick tour of the cockpit and got my plastic "wings." They still gave you blankets, pillows, peanuts, soda, and sometimes even meals. Included in the price! There was nothing I loved more than trips when we'd fly somewhere, and I'd obsess about them for months before and after.
Planes today are nothing more than enormous, uncomfortable, loud buses. By the time I return to the US in December, I will have flown on 12 separate planes since August, and I can say that almost every experience has been hellish. RyanAir is the the worst thing ever to happen to modern air travel, and it disgusts me that I make use of their services as often as I do. To have to endure seats that press my knees into my chest, blaring techno music, broadcast commercials for perfume and $9 sodas every four minutes, gargantuan British women shoving me into the plane's restroom to get ahead of me for the free-for-all seating, and the airports two hours outside of the cities they claim to serve ever so conveniently reached solely by buses which RyanAir owns somehow takes something away from the experience. This is to say nothing about the 10E per bag, the 10E I must pay for having only a US passport, and the ludicrous weight and size restrictions on carry-on luggage. I use it because it's cheap, but every time I "fly" with them, a little part of the wonder of travel inside of me shrivels and dies, and I become increasingly jaded to something which used to enchant me. I'm placing too much blame on RyanAir, of course - most airlines are similar to this today, with the exception of Korean Air, which was lovely - but they're the worst I've ever encountered.
Other than the fact that I made some painful realizations about yet another step on the road to cynical adulthood, Barcelona was great. The weather was lovely, I sat on the beach and ate lunch everyday overlooking the Mediterranean and the yachts pulling into the Olympic Port, and throughly enjoyed my hotel, which was stylish and in a great location. Until, of course, I realized (on the bus from hell briefly making a swing through Barcelona to transport me to Girona, the city not remotely connected with Barcelona that I was flying out of), that my iPod was missing from my backpack. Many of you know that I loved my iPod, and it had really become a travel companion for me on this trip, until (I think) it was taken out of my backpack while in the luggage storage room at my hotel. I called and emailed them, of course, but I'll never get it back. To compensate, I ate an entire package of crackers and an entire package of pistachios that I bought at the airport (thanks for passing that habit on to me, Dad) and woke up with a splitting headache, something which I have since dubbed a "salt hangover." I really had a lovely trip, went to a Brazilian jazz concert in the modernist/surrealist "Palace of Music," and spent a lot of time with my friend who lives there. Yesterday, though, just wasn't so great.
This week it's midterms, and on Thursday, Edinburgh.
Lunch spot at La Barcelonetta.
The beautiful interior of the Palace of Catalan Music, or the Palau de la Música Catalana in Catalan, the language spoken in Cataluña, the region of Spain where Barcelona is situated.
Planes today are nothing more than enormous, uncomfortable, loud buses. By the time I return to the US in December, I will have flown on 12 separate planes since August, and I can say that almost every experience has been hellish. RyanAir is the the worst thing ever to happen to modern air travel, and it disgusts me that I make use of their services as often as I do. To have to endure seats that press my knees into my chest, blaring techno music, broadcast commercials for perfume and $9 sodas every four minutes, gargantuan British women shoving me into the plane's restroom to get ahead of me for the free-for-all seating, and the airports two hours outside of the cities they claim to serve ever so conveniently reached solely by buses which RyanAir owns somehow takes something away from the experience. This is to say nothing about the 10E per bag, the 10E I must pay for having only a US passport, and the ludicrous weight and size restrictions on carry-on luggage. I use it because it's cheap, but every time I "fly" with them, a little part of the wonder of travel inside of me shrivels and dies, and I become increasingly jaded to something which used to enchant me. I'm placing too much blame on RyanAir, of course - most airlines are similar to this today, with the exception of Korean Air, which was lovely - but they're the worst I've ever encountered.
Other than the fact that I made some painful realizations about yet another step on the road to cynical adulthood, Barcelona was great. The weather was lovely, I sat on the beach and ate lunch everyday overlooking the Mediterranean and the yachts pulling into the Olympic Port, and throughly enjoyed my hotel, which was stylish and in a great location. Until, of course, I realized (on the bus from hell briefly making a swing through Barcelona to transport me to Girona, the city not remotely connected with Barcelona that I was flying out of), that my iPod was missing from my backpack. Many of you know that I loved my iPod, and it had really become a travel companion for me on this trip, until (I think) it was taken out of my backpack while in the luggage storage room at my hotel. I called and emailed them, of course, but I'll never get it back. To compensate, I ate an entire package of crackers and an entire package of pistachios that I bought at the airport (thanks for passing that habit on to me, Dad) and woke up with a splitting headache, something which I have since dubbed a "salt hangover." I really had a lovely trip, went to a Brazilian jazz concert in the modernist/surrealist "Palace of Music," and spent a lot of time with my friend who lives there. Yesterday, though, just wasn't so great.
This week it's midterms, and on Thursday, Edinburgh.
Lunch spot at La Barcelonetta.
The beautiful interior of the Palace of Catalan Music, or the Palau de la Música Catalana in Catalan, the language spoken in Cataluña, the region of Spain where Barcelona is situated.
Wednesday, 5 November 2008
Granada Hoy
So I made my Spanish newspaper debut today, appearing in two photos with a group of friends at a local bar (OK, not a local bar - actually, an Irish pub, which are the only places that were willing to take in thousands of students last evening and put on CNN) where we watched the elections. I feel like I'm probably better informed about the election here than if I were still in the US, and today's paper demonstrated that. Not only were there the standard international articles about Obama, but Granada Hoy (Granada's local paper) wrote their own articles about US citizens living here and how they saw the elections. I simply provided the eye candy. It's really a strange day, reading about the huge crowds in Chicago and New York, reading people's comments online about how overjoyed they are, and seeing the European/Spanish reaction, which couldn't be more positive. Obama represents much, much more than just a president to many people - it's wonderful that an African American man is becoming president, and I think our country was long overdue for some change. The realist in me keeps me grounded, though, and I wonder if this overwhelmingly emotional reaction isn't indicative of some unrealistic hopes that people are pinning on just one man.
That's it, no more politics.
Not much has been going on here: normal classes, and gearing up for midterms. I'm headed to Barcelona this weekend to visit a friend from the city, and the weekend after that, I'm flying to Edinburgh. Airline flights costing only marginally more than a bus ticket are the best thing ever to happen to travel. I'll keep you posted.
That's it, no more politics.
Not much has been going on here: normal classes, and gearing up for midterms. I'm headed to Barcelona this weekend to visit a friend from the city, and the weekend after that, I'm flying to Edinburgh. Airline flights costing only marginally more than a bus ticket are the best thing ever to happen to travel. I'll keep you posted.
Tuesday, 28 October 2008
Córdoba, Belalcázar, y Clases Particulares
Just a quick update to let you all know that I'm keeping busy (relatively), and that I'm back safe and sound from my trip to Córdoba. I had originally planned to visit the city with a professor from Bates who is on sabbatical for a year and lives in a nearby town, but because of some scheduling conflicts, I ended up visiting her at her pueblito. That town is called Belalcázar, and has stunning views over streams, olive orchards, and a convent (where I bought cookies from cloistered nuns!) and castle both built in the 15th century. The castle is totally in ruins on the inside, but it's that much cooler, because one is free to walk around and isn't bothered by hoards of tourists. These pictures don't do it justice.
I ended up staying in Córdoba a night by myself because I liked the city so much and hadn't gotten to do everything that I wanted to - I think it also helped that it was 75 and cloudless the whole time I was there, and that the city has parks with lots of green grass; I've still got to fault Granada for it's lack of grass! Córdoba is home to one of the most important cathedrals in Spain; this one happened to be a Visigoth church before being turned into a mosque which, for many years, rivaled Mecca as a pilgrimage site. It was taken over by the Christians (like so many things here), but its two most striking architectural features are the result of its Moorish roots: the bell tower, and the almost 900 arches inside the cathedral itself.
I also visited Córdoba's alcázar (which comes from Arabic and means "fortress," but it's basically the generic word used here for any fortress originally in use by the Moors), which housed the Catholic Kings while they plotted to reconquer Granada (my town). It's also worthy of note because it was the seat of the infamous Spanish Inquisition (and had a pretty extensive dungeon network), and because it's where Columbus asked the Kings permission to head over to "India." It was by far my favorite spot in the city. I couldn't get over the number of fountains, gardens, ponds (most of which were added in the 20th century), and the sculpting of the trees, all of which made me feel like I had stepped into a story by Lewis Carroll.
In other news, I've started tutoring two young kids in English, the boys of a friend of my "brother" who plays the violin in Granada's orchestra. The older one is thirteen, and while he's pretty good, he's not as good as he thinks. This afternoon I'm off to find the hardest English workbook I can, just to shut him up. The younger kid is eight, eager to learn, and just starting out with English. We get along pretty well. The only problem with the situation is that they live in a town about 30 minutes outside of the city, and I've got to catch a bus there, but, it does get me out of a town for a little bit, and gives me some pocket money (just not much!). Ah, yes, I finally got to an organ/choir concert at the cathedral here in Granada last night. Amazing setting and, wonderfully, free, even if the chorus needed to be about four times larger to be heard in there. Hope everybody's doing well!
I ended up staying in Córdoba a night by myself because I liked the city so much and hadn't gotten to do everything that I wanted to - I think it also helped that it was 75 and cloudless the whole time I was there, and that the city has parks with lots of green grass; I've still got to fault Granada for it's lack of grass! Córdoba is home to one of the most important cathedrals in Spain; this one happened to be a Visigoth church before being turned into a mosque which, for many years, rivaled Mecca as a pilgrimage site. It was taken over by the Christians (like so many things here), but its two most striking architectural features are the result of its Moorish roots: the bell tower, and the almost 900 arches inside the cathedral itself.
I also visited Córdoba's alcázar (which comes from Arabic and means "fortress," but it's basically the generic word used here for any fortress originally in use by the Moors), which housed the Catholic Kings while they plotted to reconquer Granada (my town). It's also worthy of note because it was the seat of the infamous Spanish Inquisition (and had a pretty extensive dungeon network), and because it's where Columbus asked the Kings permission to head over to "India." It was by far my favorite spot in the city. I couldn't get over the number of fountains, gardens, ponds (most of which were added in the 20th century), and the sculpting of the trees, all of which made me feel like I had stepped into a story by Lewis Carroll.
In other news, I've started tutoring two young kids in English, the boys of a friend of my "brother" who plays the violin in Granada's orchestra. The older one is thirteen, and while he's pretty good, he's not as good as he thinks. This afternoon I'm off to find the hardest English workbook I can, just to shut him up. The younger kid is eight, eager to learn, and just starting out with English. We get along pretty well. The only problem with the situation is that they live in a town about 30 minutes outside of the city, and I've got to catch a bus there, but, it does get me out of a town for a little bit, and gives me some pocket money (just not much!). Ah, yes, I finally got to an organ/choir concert at the cathedral here in Granada last night. Amazing setting and, wonderfully, free, even if the chorus needed to be about four times larger to be heard in there. Hope everybody's doing well!
Thursday, 23 October 2008
Halloween-a
I did a bad thing today. Granted, it was worth it, and not "bad" in a particularly pejorative sense, but rather something that obviously isn't done around here.
To begin with, I have three classes today, thanks to a double session of linguistics, because my professor is going away to a conference in China and he'll miss class sometime next week. However, today was the official "Start of Term Opening Ceremonies" at the Centro de Lenguas Modernas, which basically meant that everything was supposed to stop at 12:30 so that we could indulge the ancient director of programs and listen to him speak for an hour. The Center manages to do this by promising everyone in attendance free beer and wine afterwards; personally, I think everything would go much more smoothly if they served drinks beforehand, but I'm not in charge. Unfortunately, 12:30 was the only time that my make-up class could meet, so when our class was forced to end after only an hour so that all of us could catch the tail end of the speech, I snuck out of there to go buy peanut butter - the guy was still talking, and the bar hadn't opened, so there was really no reason to stay.
There is a store here in Spain called El Corte Inglés, which is something like a Macy's, if Macy's also had a grocery store, electronics center, more furniture, CDs, a bookstore, local artisan crafts, and a travel agency. People here talk about it with the disdain which we in the US reserve for WalMart, because they love it but hate to love it. You see, El Corte Inglés sells everything, including my imported, crunchy Peter Pan peanut butter, whose virtues I'm pretty sure I've previously extolled. The biggest problem with El Corte Inglés is that it's crazy expensive, much more so than even other big chains here. But it's worth it for the peanut butter.
Anyway, I had been planning my stop for peanut butter and granola for a while, but had given up hope of ever seeing anything related to Halloween in there (Halloween, as you may know, is my favorite holiday). Imagine my surprise when I stepped off the escalator to find little marzipan lollipops in the shape of pumpkins, ghosts and goblins! Well, this was nothing compared to seeing little, head-sized decorative pumpkins with sticker cutouts shaped like eyes and a mouth, all interspersed with the fruit at the fruit counter! I should explain: in grocery stores and fruterías here, you aren't allowed to select your own fruit; instead, you must wait for the attendant, ask his or her opinion on the state of the melons that day, and have her select, weigh, and bag them. This is always frustrating and rarely helpful, but it is what it is. There and then, I decided that I must have a pumpkin. They don't do jack-o-lanterns here, and I've never seen a pumpkin for sale anywhere - we're cutting it close to the line here, people! Only seven days to go! So, I waited by the selection of gins for the fruit lady to help an old woman smell apples, ran over to one of the pumpkins, put it under my arm, and began speed-walking away. The problem was, I didn't know if they were for sale or just decorative, but it didn't really matter. The fruit lady was shocked at my audacity, taking something from her stand without asking about its ripeness, or then again she may just have been yelling at me because they don't sell pumpkins. I don't really know. As I huffed it away from her, I muttered something under my breath about only being able to speak English.
Now don't think that I just walked out of the store with the pumpkin - A) it was way too conspicuous for that, and B) I had my peanut butter and granola to think about! Thankfully, the woman at the cash register only shot me a strange look, typed some numbers in, and charged me three euros for the pumpkin. I think it showed up on my receipt as "vegetable." Walking home was the fun part. You must try to imagine me, to begin with weighed down with my umbrella, computer, messenger bag, and four notebooks, now with a bag of peanut butter and cereals, and a bright orange smiling face sticking out from underneath my arm. I had put my sunglasses on in the store before walking out to find it raining, and had no option taking them off with the balancing act I was carefully pulling off. I would have been a sight at home, but here, this was too much. I had five separate groups of children stop while passing me (school was getting out) to muse over what it was, exactly, that I was carrying. Men in suits, grandmothers, a line of construction workers all could not understand what I had with me. I knew that pumpkins weren't common, but come on! This became more clear once I got home and found that Irma (my "mom") had no idea about our wonderful pumpkin-carving tradition, but was relieved to hear that my "brother" had seen them in a movie, probably something of high quality like the teen-slasher flick Halloween H20. People need to watch more TV!
So that was fun. I had a wonderful lasagna for lunch, for which Irma made her own dough for the pasta and homemade sauce (the other day I had homemade gnocci, the little potato pastas...), and I sit here typing while eating my peanut butter with a spoon. Tomorrow I'm going to visit a friend / professor from Bates near Córdoba in a little pueblito somewhere in the country, and I'll be back late on Saturday. Hopefully. Apparently the buses are pretty infrequent out there. Until next time.
To begin with, I have three classes today, thanks to a double session of linguistics, because my professor is going away to a conference in China and he'll miss class sometime next week. However, today was the official "Start of Term Opening Ceremonies" at the Centro de Lenguas Modernas, which basically meant that everything was supposed to stop at 12:30 so that we could indulge the ancient director of programs and listen to him speak for an hour. The Center manages to do this by promising everyone in attendance free beer and wine afterwards; personally, I think everything would go much more smoothly if they served drinks beforehand, but I'm not in charge. Unfortunately, 12:30 was the only time that my make-up class could meet, so when our class was forced to end after only an hour so that all of us could catch the tail end of the speech, I snuck out of there to go buy peanut butter - the guy was still talking, and the bar hadn't opened, so there was really no reason to stay.
There is a store here in Spain called El Corte Inglés, which is something like a Macy's, if Macy's also had a grocery store, electronics center, more furniture, CDs, a bookstore, local artisan crafts, and a travel agency. People here talk about it with the disdain which we in the US reserve for WalMart, because they love it but hate to love it. You see, El Corte Inglés sells everything, including my imported, crunchy Peter Pan peanut butter, whose virtues I'm pretty sure I've previously extolled. The biggest problem with El Corte Inglés is that it's crazy expensive, much more so than even other big chains here. But it's worth it for the peanut butter.
Anyway, I had been planning my stop for peanut butter and granola for a while, but had given up hope of ever seeing anything related to Halloween in there (Halloween, as you may know, is my favorite holiday). Imagine my surprise when I stepped off the escalator to find little marzipan lollipops in the shape of pumpkins, ghosts and goblins! Well, this was nothing compared to seeing little, head-sized decorative pumpkins with sticker cutouts shaped like eyes and a mouth, all interspersed with the fruit at the fruit counter! I should explain: in grocery stores and fruterías here, you aren't allowed to select your own fruit; instead, you must wait for the attendant, ask his or her opinion on the state of the melons that day, and have her select, weigh, and bag them. This is always frustrating and rarely helpful, but it is what it is. There and then, I decided that I must have a pumpkin. They don't do jack-o-lanterns here, and I've never seen a pumpkin for sale anywhere - we're cutting it close to the line here, people! Only seven days to go! So, I waited by the selection of gins for the fruit lady to help an old woman smell apples, ran over to one of the pumpkins, put it under my arm, and began speed-walking away. The problem was, I didn't know if they were for sale or just decorative, but it didn't really matter. The fruit lady was shocked at my audacity, taking something from her stand without asking about its ripeness, or then again she may just have been yelling at me because they don't sell pumpkins. I don't really know. As I huffed it away from her, I muttered something under my breath about only being able to speak English.
Now don't think that I just walked out of the store with the pumpkin - A) it was way too conspicuous for that, and B) I had my peanut butter and granola to think about! Thankfully, the woman at the cash register only shot me a strange look, typed some numbers in, and charged me three euros for the pumpkin. I think it showed up on my receipt as "vegetable." Walking home was the fun part. You must try to imagine me, to begin with weighed down with my umbrella, computer, messenger bag, and four notebooks, now with a bag of peanut butter and cereals, and a bright orange smiling face sticking out from underneath my arm. I had put my sunglasses on in the store before walking out to find it raining, and had no option taking them off with the balancing act I was carefully pulling off. I would have been a sight at home, but here, this was too much. I had five separate groups of children stop while passing me (school was getting out) to muse over what it was, exactly, that I was carrying. Men in suits, grandmothers, a line of construction workers all could not understand what I had with me. I knew that pumpkins weren't common, but come on! This became more clear once I got home and found that Irma (my "mom") had no idea about our wonderful pumpkin-carving tradition, but was relieved to hear that my "brother" had seen them in a movie, probably something of high quality like the teen-slasher flick Halloween H20. People need to watch more TV!
So that was fun. I had a wonderful lasagna for lunch, for which Irma made her own dough for the pasta and homemade sauce (the other day I had homemade gnocci, the little potato pastas...), and I sit here typing while eating my peanut butter with a spoon. Tomorrow I'm going to visit a friend / professor from Bates near Córdoba in a little pueblito somewhere in the country, and I'll be back late on Saturday. Hopefully. Apparently the buses are pretty infrequent out there. Until next time.
Wednesday, 15 October 2008
Londres and Oxford, otherwise known as Harry's backyard...
This post is dedicated to Nicole.
I just got back from London and Oxford; well, I've actually been back in Granada since Monday night, but classes have been going on, so I've been pretending to be busy with those. Just in case you're wondering, I'm taking the Political System of the European Union (riveting), Introduction to Linguistics, Varieties of Spanish, English to Spanish Translation, and an advanced Writing and Conversation class. At least that's my schedule at the moment - we'll see what actually sticks around, as I've got until Friday to make changes.
England was phenomenal. I knew that I liked London from the two nights I had spent there before about two years ago, though I was a little apprehensive to go back. The first time was after spending two weeks in Spain and France, and my mom and I were so happy to speak English that we would have been happy in Arkansas (well, OK, that's not true, but you get the point). I just wasn't sure if it would be so great the second time I went. It was. Getting there was hellish, but only because I had to take a taxi to the bus station at six in the madrugada, take a bus to Málaga two hours away, get on a city bus and then in a taxi, all to fly out in a hurricane. When I arrived in London, however, the sky was perfectly clear, the temperature around 70 degrees, and the leaves were actually changing colors! You must bear in mind that yes, in Spain the leaves do change, but they turn brown and die. England, strangely enough, is very much like New England in fall, just not quite as spectacularly colorful. My friend Steve met me at the station after my train ride into the city, and off we went to swindle my previously-booked hotel out of some money by sneaking him in for the night.
Demonstrating my amazing ability to take a picture with one hand and not look like it.
That night, we went to see a show in the West End (London's answer to Broadway). We had no idea what we wanted to see, but we didn't want to spend a lot of money. We walked by a theater advertising "39 Steps!," a comedy, apparently, based off of an old Hitchcock movie. "Why not?" we thought. We stepped into the box office and asked the man about the £10 box seats. "How are those guys?" "Great, if you want to sit behind a pole three balconies up behind a large woman in an even larger hat," came the answer. "OK, how about the £22.50s?" Then, he had a sudden idea. If we happened to be students, he told us, we could get the best seats in the house for £15. Needless to say, we did it, and sat in the third-row orchestra. The show was great: the 24 characters in the show were put on by a four-person cast which was very adept at quick changes and wonderfully ludicrous British humour, especially when they needed to play two or three characters who appeared on stage simultaneously. It also snowed on us at the end of the show (more accurately, foam fell on us from the ceiling, but it was pretty cool - I can't actually remember what that had to do with the plot).
The next day we left for Oxford. I live in a stunningly beautiful area of Spain, but Oxford had it all over Granada, at least in a different way. I think it helped that I've been yearning for fall, and also that the weather could not have been more perfect. Many, many of the buildings date back to the 12th century, and Steve took me on a great little tour around town and past some of the colleges. Oxford is very much a city, just with ancient buildings filled with brilliant, beautiful people with British accents, surrounded by a river and beautiful meadows. I miss green fields. There's a whole lot of red dirt in Spain. And the green there is amazing.
Punting along the Thames. OK, so this isn't punting, but some people were, and it was very atmospheric.
The most amazing part of the day, perhaps, was when Steve left me to go study - but not because Steve left me. I decided to entertain myself by paying £3 to walk around Christ Church, one of the "clotted cream" colleges of Oxford, according to Steve, which means it's where all the rich children of Lords go. I'm curious to see if you can tell why it was amazing from the pictures sans description (here's where you come in, Nicole!):
You guessed it! Christ Church was where they filmed many scenes for the Harry Potter movies, namely for the Great Hall and the stairs leading into it (seen above). Steve ruined the magic a bit for me by telling me that the actual hall at Christ Church (which they still use as a dining hall) was too small for the movie, so they essentially recreated it exactly (except for the magical ceiling) in a barn somewhere in the English countryside. But it didn't really matter. Amazing.
After spending the night on Steve's comfy floor, I left the next morning, falafel-and-hummus panini in hand, on the bus for London. That afternoon, I went to the British Museum (very cool, but I think the Met is better), ate at an Indian restaurant that night (Indian food!), and spent the next morning walking around aimlessly before I had to head to the airport. I walked around Regent's Park, which was originally designed as a garden for the extremely wealthy who were to build their houses around it, but which is now just beautiful. It was also the setting for 101 Dalmatians.
That morning, I also visited St. Paul's Cathedral, but just saw it from the door because I was too cheap to pay to actually walk around it. After that, I stopped by Temple Church, a 12th century replica of the Church of the Holy Sepulcher in Jerusalem. Less interestingly, but still worthy of note, it was featured in the popular novel/Tom Hanks movie The DaVinci Code. It wasn't supposed to be open, but happened to be, and was beautiful and peaceful, the perfect respite before my fight for a turkey and cranberry sandwich at a busy deli for lunch (we don't have turkey in Spain, and it is a staple of my diet!), and the awful, awful RyanAir flight back to Granada.
I just got back from London and Oxford; well, I've actually been back in Granada since Monday night, but classes have been going on, so I've been pretending to be busy with those. Just in case you're wondering, I'm taking the Political System of the European Union (riveting), Introduction to Linguistics, Varieties of Spanish, English to Spanish Translation, and an advanced Writing and Conversation class. At least that's my schedule at the moment - we'll see what actually sticks around, as I've got until Friday to make changes.
England was phenomenal. I knew that I liked London from the two nights I had spent there before about two years ago, though I was a little apprehensive to go back. The first time was after spending two weeks in Spain and France, and my mom and I were so happy to speak English that we would have been happy in Arkansas (well, OK, that's not true, but you get the point). I just wasn't sure if it would be so great the second time I went. It was. Getting there was hellish, but only because I had to take a taxi to the bus station at six in the madrugada, take a bus to Málaga two hours away, get on a city bus and then in a taxi, all to fly out in a hurricane. When I arrived in London, however, the sky was perfectly clear, the temperature around 70 degrees, and the leaves were actually changing colors! You must bear in mind that yes, in Spain the leaves do change, but they turn brown and die. England, strangely enough, is very much like New England in fall, just not quite as spectacularly colorful. My friend Steve met me at the station after my train ride into the city, and off we went to swindle my previously-booked hotel out of some money by sneaking him in for the night.
Demonstrating my amazing ability to take a picture with one hand and not look like it.That night, we went to see a show in the West End (London's answer to Broadway). We had no idea what we wanted to see, but we didn't want to spend a lot of money. We walked by a theater advertising "39 Steps!," a comedy, apparently, based off of an old Hitchcock movie. "Why not?" we thought. We stepped into the box office and asked the man about the £10 box seats. "How are those guys?" "Great, if you want to sit behind a pole three balconies up behind a large woman in an even larger hat," came the answer. "OK, how about the £22.50s?" Then, he had a sudden idea. If we happened to be students, he told us, we could get the best seats in the house for £15. Needless to say, we did it, and sat in the third-row orchestra. The show was great: the 24 characters in the show were put on by a four-person cast which was very adept at quick changes and wonderfully ludicrous British humour, especially when they needed to play two or three characters who appeared on stage simultaneously. It also snowed on us at the end of the show (more accurately, foam fell on us from the ceiling, but it was pretty cool - I can't actually remember what that had to do with the plot).
The next day we left for Oxford. I live in a stunningly beautiful area of Spain, but Oxford had it all over Granada, at least in a different way. I think it helped that I've been yearning for fall, and also that the weather could not have been more perfect. Many, many of the buildings date back to the 12th century, and Steve took me on a great little tour around town and past some of the colleges. Oxford is very much a city, just with ancient buildings filled with brilliant, beautiful people with British accents, surrounded by a river and beautiful meadows. I miss green fields. There's a whole lot of red dirt in Spain. And the green there is amazing.
Punting along the Thames. OK, so this isn't punting, but some people were, and it was very atmospheric.
The most amazing part of the day, perhaps, was when Steve left me to go study - but not because Steve left me. I decided to entertain myself by paying £3 to walk around Christ Church, one of the "clotted cream" colleges of Oxford, according to Steve, which means it's where all the rich children of Lords go. I'm curious to see if you can tell why it was amazing from the pictures sans description (here's where you come in, Nicole!):
You guessed it! Christ Church was where they filmed many scenes for the Harry Potter movies, namely for the Great Hall and the stairs leading into it (seen above). Steve ruined the magic a bit for me by telling me that the actual hall at Christ Church (which they still use as a dining hall) was too small for the movie, so they essentially recreated it exactly (except for the magical ceiling) in a barn somewhere in the English countryside. But it didn't really matter. Amazing.
After spending the night on Steve's comfy floor, I left the next morning, falafel-and-hummus panini in hand, on the bus for London. That afternoon, I went to the British Museum (very cool, but I think the Met is better), ate at an Indian restaurant that night (Indian food!), and spent the next morning walking around aimlessly before I had to head to the airport. I walked around Regent's Park, which was originally designed as a garden for the extremely wealthy who were to build their houses around it, but which is now just beautiful. It was also the setting for 101 Dalmatians.
That morning, I also visited St. Paul's Cathedral, but just saw it from the door because I was too cheap to pay to actually walk around it. After that, I stopped by Temple Church, a 12th century replica of the Church of the Holy Sepulcher in Jerusalem. Less interestingly, but still worthy of note, it was featured in the popular novel/Tom Hanks movie The DaVinci Code. It wasn't supposed to be open, but happened to be, and was beautiful and peaceful, the perfect respite before my fight for a turkey and cranberry sandwich at a busy deli for lunch (we don't have turkey in Spain, and it is a staple of my diet!), and the awful, awful RyanAir flight back to Granada.
Thursday, 9 October 2008
Capilla Real
Yesterday was pretty cool. As you know, I started class, and as you also know, I've been going to choir rehearsals, despite the fact that I can't sing with the chorus in their concert on Sunday in the Capilla Real (the section of the cathedral in Granada built by the Catholic Kings as their burial site) because I'll be in London, visiting my friend Steve, who's also keeping a blog. That didn't stop me from going to rehearse there, in spite of the fact that I had missed the last four rehearsals for various reasons. It was absolutely unbelievable. First of all, the group met outside the Capilla after it had been closed for about two hours, and we were shown in by a security guard. Of course, no one was in there, and we were pushed through a secret door hidden behind a blood-red velvet curtain hanging next to one of the two side altars. As we walked behind the 30-foot high iron gates next to the 40-foot tall gilded altar (though not the main one), we passed through a three-foot thick wooden door, and up a huge, slippery, curvy staircase from the very beginning of the 16th century. At the top, the whole Capilla opened up to us in the choir loft, which overlooked the three major altars in the darkened, cavernous space, the majority of the light reflecting off the four huge marble sarcophagi of the royal family behind the massive gilded grille. We were greeted by a gilded, carved sign stating "Hic Est Chorus," or Here is the Chorus, in Latin. It was great up there; not only did we have a phenomenal view, but everything was dusty, they hadn't replaced the floor, so it was the original ancient tile, and there was graffiti all over the stone balcony, some of which dated from the 1800's. The acoustics were also phenomenal. Who needs a bishop as an audience? It was very, very cool. Here's a picture.
Today, I went to "Dunkin' Coffee," the name Dunkin' Donuts has given to itself in this country, and ordered a Dunkin' Original, the only way you can get a "normal" American cup of coffee in a to-go cup. I wanted it because it's pretty blustery today, and I have to say, it was the best cup of Dunkin' Donuts coffee I've ever had. In the morning, I went with some friends to a gelatto shop I don't much care for to try one of their specialties: essentially, a piece of ice cream cake in a cone. It was pretty good, but way creamier than what I'm used to here, so I'm not rushing back. Tomorrow I fly to London, and I found out that the earliest bus I can take gets in only an hour before my plane leaves if everything runs on-time, so we'll see how this works out.
Today, I went to "Dunkin' Coffee," the name Dunkin' Donuts has given to itself in this country, and ordered a Dunkin' Original, the only way you can get a "normal" American cup of coffee in a to-go cup. I wanted it because it's pretty blustery today, and I have to say, it was the best cup of Dunkin' Donuts coffee I've ever had. In the morning, I went with some friends to a gelatto shop I don't much care for to try one of their specialties: essentially, a piece of ice cream cake in a cone. It was pretty good, but way creamier than what I'm used to here, so I'm not rushing back. Tomorrow I fly to London, and I found out that the earliest bus I can take gets in only an hour before my plane leaves if everything runs on-time, so we'll see how this works out.
Wednesday, 8 October 2008
Bruselas
Madrid was fun, but a lot like I left it about a month ago. We also met up with some students from another program in Toledo and had about 15 bottles of wine between the 20 of us on our program's tab (not something they were expecting), so that was nice. Also, we checked out the cathedral in Segovia, which I missed the last time I was there.
Brussels was amazing, if not very cold and wet. In fact, it rained every day we were there, and only got nice the afternoon of the last day. None of us, though, really had clothing that was appropriate for the temperature. In the hotel, I literally had to step over the toilet in the bathroom to get into the "shower area," which had only a hand-held nozzle clearly meant to hang on the wall but which lacked a piece or two of hardware, while the tub was about big enough for me if I squeezed in and held my breath. Unfortunately, I got pretty sick in Madrid with a cold, and didn't really have the luxury of being able to breathe for the majority of the trip; this is a problem in a place where the only thing to do is eat. You might think I'm kidding, but absolutely everything we did in the city revolved around eating. We had waffles covered in sugar, nutella, bananas, strawberries and ice cream on the street, we had french fries with curry ketchup and mayonnaise wrapped in newspaper, we had mussels, we had cherry beer, we had Chemais beer made by Trappist monks somewhere in Belgium, and we had lots and lots of chocolate. From the free samples alone I have gained 12 pounds, but, not to worry, I have quite a bit stored here in my closet. In fact, we tried to go to three museums, and only made it to two. The Comic Book Museum proved impossible to find, especially in the rain, so we had to settle for the Museum of Chocolate and the Museum of Beer. We went out for a really nice dinner the first night we were there to a restaurant which formerly had three Michelin Stars, but which has recently been downgraded to two. Despite the fact that I could taste almost nothing and that it had been knocked down a peg, it was one of the most memorable meals I've had. One of the girls I was with has culinary aspirations and a direct attitude, and the next thing we knew we were in the kitchen having our picture taken with the chef. Once I get copies, I'll get those up on here, assuming that I don't have bloodshot eyes, a glazed look from the amount of drugs I was on, and something dripping out of my nose.
This is a picture of the Grand Place, the main plaza in the old section of town. Unfortunately, this doesn't do it any justice: it's huge and stunningly beautiful. Each of the smaller buildings around the plaza was built by one of the guilds of the city back in the 17th century. The most impressive building, I think, was built, unsurprisingly perhaps, by the brewers.
In other news, classes started today, I have my other two classes tomorrow, and then I'm off to London and Oxford. ¡Que paséis una semana fantástica!
Brussels was amazing, if not very cold and wet. In fact, it rained every day we were there, and only got nice the afternoon of the last day. None of us, though, really had clothing that was appropriate for the temperature. In the hotel, I literally had to step over the toilet in the bathroom to get into the "shower area," which had only a hand-held nozzle clearly meant to hang on the wall but which lacked a piece or two of hardware, while the tub was about big enough for me if I squeezed in and held my breath. Unfortunately, I got pretty sick in Madrid with a cold, and didn't really have the luxury of being able to breathe for the majority of the trip; this is a problem in a place where the only thing to do is eat. You might think I'm kidding, but absolutely everything we did in the city revolved around eating. We had waffles covered in sugar, nutella, bananas, strawberries and ice cream on the street, we had french fries with curry ketchup and mayonnaise wrapped in newspaper, we had mussels, we had cherry beer, we had Chemais beer made by Trappist monks somewhere in Belgium, and we had lots and lots of chocolate. From the free samples alone I have gained 12 pounds, but, not to worry, I have quite a bit stored here in my closet. In fact, we tried to go to three museums, and only made it to two. The Comic Book Museum proved impossible to find, especially in the rain, so we had to settle for the Museum of Chocolate and the Museum of Beer. We went out for a really nice dinner the first night we were there to a restaurant which formerly had three Michelin Stars, but which has recently been downgraded to two. Despite the fact that I could taste almost nothing and that it had been knocked down a peg, it was one of the most memorable meals I've had. One of the girls I was with has culinary aspirations and a direct attitude, and the next thing we knew we were in the kitchen having our picture taken with the chef. Once I get copies, I'll get those up on here, assuming that I don't have bloodshot eyes, a glazed look from the amount of drugs I was on, and something dripping out of my nose.
This is a picture of the Grand Place, the main plaza in the old section of town. Unfortunately, this doesn't do it any justice: it's huge and stunningly beautiful. Each of the smaller buildings around the plaza was built by one of the guilds of the city back in the 17th century. The most impressive building, I think, was built, unsurprisingly perhaps, by the brewers.
In other news, classes started today, I have my other two classes tomorrow, and then I'm off to London and Oxford. ¡Que paséis una semana fantástica!
Tuesday, 30 September 2008
La Policía
This morning I had to get up at 6:15, which is practically unthinkable here in Spain. You see, for all of my efforts with the Spanish government's admirable attempt to recreate hell on earth known as the Spanish Consulate in New York, I was only able to get a three-month visa, though I will be living in Spain for a year. Students here for six months, however, receive a six-month visa. This, I am told, is standard practice. Because of this, it was necessary for me to go over to police headquarters last week to petition a visa extension and student identity card. A woman who works for my program and I tried one day, found that the line was too long and that they would let no one else in, and so we left. The next day, my program's director got into line at 7:00 AM, and we (myself and Cristina, the program's twenty-something coordinator) took over at 8, being number 130 in line out of 150. There were, of course, about 400 people in line, but no one after 150 was told that they wouldn't be entering the building, so they continued to wait. At about 12:30 we finally entered, only to wait at another window for another number, to then wait in line again at the window of the woman who could help process my paperwork. I signed everything I needed to, and was told that I had to come back the next week to have my fingerprints taken and to pay some "nominal" fee, which, being like the Consulate, I couldn't pay at the police station, which meant I would have to leave with a paper from the station, go to a bank, pay there, and get a money order to take back. This was after waiting in line to get into the building again.
Which brings us to today. This was a four day weekend for me, since I finished my exam on Friday, and I was the only student in the group who had Monday and Tuesday off, also. I thought about traveling, but no, they told me, it would be best if I went to the police station Tuesday morning to do my prints. "OK," I thought. I packed some fresh almond and lemon zest biscotti in my bag from my "mom" (there are some perks to living where I do), and set out. I thought about getting a coffee or a paper on the way, but then remembered that there is no coffee to go here, and that nothing is open before 7:15, so that was impossible. I had enough foresight to rent a movie for my iPod (Dial M for Murder, I'd never seen it) so that I could watch it in line. I got there around 6:45, and knew that they start handing out numbers at 8:30. One step in the process is to put your name on a list to get a numer to get a numer to get the final number, which I did, being 140. Remember, last time they let 150 in. The north African man behind me in line kept pressing up against me because A) there is no concept of a kinosphere here and B) he was trying to watch my movie. Also, it was about 35 degrees here this morning when everyday it has been in the 80's, which is why my sandals, my sweater and I were freezing this morning; I realized this as soon as I stepped out of my building, but I didn't have time to go back for a jacket. At 8:30, we were told that they had decided to let only 130 people in that day, so that there were no numbers left. They don't actually tell anyone, you must leave line to go ask this, which is why the rest of the people in the line wrapped around the back of the building are futilely there still waiting. I went up to ask one of the massive police officers if I could possibly get in just to do my fingerprints since I had already been to the station and missed the arbitrary cutoff by 10 people, and was told to get up at five next time. This coming from a man who doesn't get into work until 8:30, and probably can't function until he's had his steroid-laced espresso in the morning.
So, I called the program coordinator, who told me that it wasn't really necessary that I go today anyway, and that she would accompany me the next time when we get back from our break. "Oh," I thought. "I'm glad I didn't take advantage of this weekend." She also reminded me that I need to go back for a third appointment at the station, in order to pick up my ID. The DMV is a Caribbean resort compared to this place. I'd write to someone, but I don't think they'd care.
In other news, I was shaking so much as I walked home from the cold that I dropped my iPod onto one of the marble sidewalks, it broke out of its case, the case cracked, and the iPod went flying. It still works. The same might not be true of my new computer, which has started making a strange noise, and of course there are no Mac stores here where I could have it looked at. It was a lovely morning :o) We leave for Madrid tomorrow, and I must say, I'm very ready. The only thing to be seen now is whether I'll be allowed back into the country after Belgium, since my visa hasn't been extended. Ehh.
Which brings us to today. This was a four day weekend for me, since I finished my exam on Friday, and I was the only student in the group who had Monday and Tuesday off, also. I thought about traveling, but no, they told me, it would be best if I went to the police station Tuesday morning to do my prints. "OK," I thought. I packed some fresh almond and lemon zest biscotti in my bag from my "mom" (there are some perks to living where I do), and set out. I thought about getting a coffee or a paper on the way, but then remembered that there is no coffee to go here, and that nothing is open before 7:15, so that was impossible. I had enough foresight to rent a movie for my iPod (Dial M for Murder, I'd never seen it) so that I could watch it in line. I got there around 6:45, and knew that they start handing out numbers at 8:30. One step in the process is to put your name on a list to get a numer to get a numer to get the final number, which I did, being 140. Remember, last time they let 150 in. The north African man behind me in line kept pressing up against me because A) there is no concept of a kinosphere here and B) he was trying to watch my movie. Also, it was about 35 degrees here this morning when everyday it has been in the 80's, which is why my sandals, my sweater and I were freezing this morning; I realized this as soon as I stepped out of my building, but I didn't have time to go back for a jacket. At 8:30, we were told that they had decided to let only 130 people in that day, so that there were no numbers left. They don't actually tell anyone, you must leave line to go ask this, which is why the rest of the people in the line wrapped around the back of the building are futilely there still waiting. I went up to ask one of the massive police officers if I could possibly get in just to do my fingerprints since I had already been to the station and missed the arbitrary cutoff by 10 people, and was told to get up at five next time. This coming from a man who doesn't get into work until 8:30, and probably can't function until he's had his steroid-laced espresso in the morning.
So, I called the program coordinator, who told me that it wasn't really necessary that I go today anyway, and that she would accompany me the next time when we get back from our break. "Oh," I thought. "I'm glad I didn't take advantage of this weekend." She also reminded me that I need to go back for a third appointment at the station, in order to pick up my ID. The DMV is a Caribbean resort compared to this place. I'd write to someone, but I don't think they'd care.
In other news, I was shaking so much as I walked home from the cold that I dropped my iPod onto one of the marble sidewalks, it broke out of its case, the case cracked, and the iPod went flying. It still works. The same might not be true of my new computer, which has started making a strange noise, and of course there are no Mac stores here where I could have it looked at. It was a lovely morning :o) We leave for Madrid tomorrow, and I must say, I'm very ready. The only thing to be seen now is whether I'll be allowed back into the country after Belgium, since my visa hasn't been extended. Ehh.
Sunday, 28 September 2008
Mercado Verde
I've had a strange two days. Fall has definitely arrived, and it's been in the 60's and rainy all week - this is fine, since I like this type of weather, and should probably move to England at some point in my life. Yesterday was very low-key, and I went out to the cinema with some friends to see a British movie (produced in cooperation with BBC) called "The Boy in the Striped Pajamas." It is a recently-released Holocaust film with a heart-wrenchingly simple and tragic plot (go see it!). The most interesting part of the evening, though, was that the movie theater was completely full! I have never in my life been in a full theater, unless it was for the premier of a Harry Potter or Star Wars movie, but there were so many people yesterday that we even needed to move to find our assigned seats (yes, assigned seats in a movie theater). I can't tell if it has to do with the fact that the Holocaust took place in Europe and therefore Europeans identify more with it, or that Europeans are more likely to want to see an intellectual, thought-provoking movie, or that the movie was recently released and has received quite a bit of press coverage (it's probably all three), but it seems to me that if the film doesn't have explosions and computer-generated graphics, many Americans just won't be interested. The biggest letdown of the evening was when we realized that the movie, whose opening credits were written in English, had been dubbed into Spanish. Dubbing has become one of my pet peeves, even in the US, where I would just rather watch something with subtitles. I can see it now: I'm not going to be able to see the new James Bond film when it comes out, because it will be in Spanish, and frankly, the British accents make it. Fortunately, "The Boy in the Striped Pajamas" was easy to understand and powerful even with the dubbing.
After the movie and the entire carton of popcorn I ate, I went home, had dinner, left the house to meet some friends at our neighborhood's carnival, decided the carnival was awful, and went out for pizza at an Italian tapas place near us. The pizza was pretty good, and the mojito even better. I eat here every two hours!
Today was another festival of the Virgen, and all week the local pastelerías (bakeries) have been advertising their Virgin Cakes (probably better translated as Cakes of the Virgin, but it's funnier the other way). I was supposed to go to Seville today, but I instead decided to stay in Granada, go to a flea market this morning (which basically consisted of lots and lots of people screaming at me to buy shoes for 4 Euros and an unnecessary use of 2.10E on the busride), and go to Mass at the Basilica (where the virgin lives) to hear the church's choir. A friend's host mother said to get to the church very early, perhaps an hour ahead of time, for the one o'clock mass, so we got there around 12. I have never felt so violated in my life, and, ironically, it happened in a church. My friend's host mom had neglected to tell her that there are about eight masses every day, and we were trying to get into the church in the middle of the 12 o'clock mass on a festival day. This involved a line for 30 minutes, getting pushed and prodded into the church, standing about a mile away from the priest, and not knowing what to pretend to say during the mass. The worst moment was probably when my friend shrieked a little because a man was grabbing her back, when he moved, and proceeded to rest his chin on my shoulder. Unsurprisingly, at that point we left the mass, another half-hour process, and decided to get lunch, since we had both told our "mothers" that we wouldn't be home in time. It's a shame I couldn't take pictures inside the basilica - it is stunningly beautiful. Check this out instead.
They've set up a huge fruit/nut/candy market outside of the basilica for the festival, and I decided to get some dried apricots and some of a mix of dried bananas, coconut, and berries for the Special K (!!!!!) cereal that I found recently for breakfast (now I just need 1 percent milk!). I asked for a half-kilo of each, thinking that that's about the least of each they would happily give me, thinking it would come out to around 7 Euro. 16 Euro later, I had some good food and much less money, and it was time for lunch. A Scottish English professor from the University told me of a local restaurant run by an English woman, which makes wonderful salads and runs a full English brunch on Sundays (roast beef, puddings, etc.) We decided to check it out and, as it was closed for some reason, went to lunch in a plaza, where I managed to get a salad and some grilled chicken - the first meat that wasn't pork I've had in over a week! After lunch, we just so happened to be across from one of the shops of our favorite little helado (ice cream) company, and since we're taking advantage of the fact that these places will only be open through October and therefore are required to eat there every day, went over for a chocolate-covered cone. These cones, apparently, are of a larger size than I'm used to, which resulted in my eating about half a pint of ice cream, which is why I'm now off to take a nap. One of my biggest problems with this country is the lack of space to "chill;" we were specifically told that we weren't allowed to have guests in our host family's apartments, so if we ever see our friends, we're out spending money. This cheap little morning by itself cost me about 35 Euro, which is a pace I just can't keep up!
After the movie and the entire carton of popcorn I ate, I went home, had dinner, left the house to meet some friends at our neighborhood's carnival, decided the carnival was awful, and went out for pizza at an Italian tapas place near us. The pizza was pretty good, and the mojito even better. I eat here every two hours!
Today was another festival of the Virgen, and all week the local pastelerías (bakeries) have been advertising their Virgin Cakes (probably better translated as Cakes of the Virgin, but it's funnier the other way). I was supposed to go to Seville today, but I instead decided to stay in Granada, go to a flea market this morning (which basically consisted of lots and lots of people screaming at me to buy shoes for 4 Euros and an unnecessary use of 2.10E on the busride), and go to Mass at the Basilica (where the virgin lives) to hear the church's choir. A friend's host mother said to get to the church very early, perhaps an hour ahead of time, for the one o'clock mass, so we got there around 12. I have never felt so violated in my life, and, ironically, it happened in a church. My friend's host mom had neglected to tell her that there are about eight masses every day, and we were trying to get into the church in the middle of the 12 o'clock mass on a festival day. This involved a line for 30 minutes, getting pushed and prodded into the church, standing about a mile away from the priest, and not knowing what to pretend to say during the mass. The worst moment was probably when my friend shrieked a little because a man was grabbing her back, when he moved, and proceeded to rest his chin on my shoulder. Unsurprisingly, at that point we left the mass, another half-hour process, and decided to get lunch, since we had both told our "mothers" that we wouldn't be home in time. It's a shame I couldn't take pictures inside the basilica - it is stunningly beautiful. Check this out instead.
They've set up a huge fruit/nut/candy market outside of the basilica for the festival, and I decided to get some dried apricots and some of a mix of dried bananas, coconut, and berries for the Special K (!!!!!) cereal that I found recently for breakfast (now I just need 1 percent milk!). I asked for a half-kilo of each, thinking that that's about the least of each they would happily give me, thinking it would come out to around 7 Euro. 16 Euro later, I had some good food and much less money, and it was time for lunch. A Scottish English professor from the University told me of a local restaurant run by an English woman, which makes wonderful salads and runs a full English brunch on Sundays (roast beef, puddings, etc.) We decided to check it out and, as it was closed for some reason, went to lunch in a plaza, where I managed to get a salad and some grilled chicken - the first meat that wasn't pork I've had in over a week! After lunch, we just so happened to be across from one of the shops of our favorite little helado (ice cream) company, and since we're taking advantage of the fact that these places will only be open through October and therefore are required to eat there every day, went over for a chocolate-covered cone. These cones, apparently, are of a larger size than I'm used to, which resulted in my eating about half a pint of ice cream, which is why I'm now off to take a nap. One of my biggest problems with this country is the lack of space to "chill;" we were specifically told that we weren't allowed to have guests in our host family's apartments, so if we ever see our friends, we're out spending money. This cheap little morning by itself cost me about 35 Euro, which is a pace I just can't keep up!
Friday, 26 September 2008
Otoño
I think that fall has finally come to Granada. The light has changed a little (it gets dark around quarter of nine now), and it's "cool" enough that I can wear my jeans during the day without melting, so I blend in a little better with the locals. This is my favorite season at home, though, so it's a little strange to be here. Send me pumpkin products!
What's new? I feel like I haven't written in ages. Hmmm. Well, one night last week there was a huge fashion show in the center of town produced by some of the local stores, which mainly consisted of seemingly fully-clothed models walking down the runway until - surprise! - they turned around and reminded everyone present that we were in Europe. That same night across the street there was a salsa/cha cha cha concert, and the plaza was filled with coupes over the age of 70 attempting to sway back and forth to the music. Really, really cute. I went to a show that night, a bedroom comedy that came to the Teatro de Isabel la Católica, the main/biggest theater in Granada, from Madrid. It was a Friday night, I really wanted to go to the theater, and didn't really feel like going with anyone. Besides, I believe that was the day that everyone was off on some Arab Bath experience with the group while I was in class, so they weren't around anyway. The show was funny, and it was great to be in a theater, but I only understood about 50 percent of what was going on, what with how fast the actors were speaking, the nuanced dialog, and the fact that I was sitting up in the 4th balcony three kilometers away vertically from the stage. You must understand, of course, that in Spain one doesn't do anything alone; even sitting on a park bench eating a donner kebap (a wonderful gyro-like Middle Eastern pita thingy) is enough to broadcast to the world that you are a social pariah - I know from experience. So, going to a show (which, like many things in Spain, started at 10:30 at night) by oneself is completely unheard of. I could tell that the woman who was seated next to me was already wary of the fact that I was alone, but combine that with the way I didn't laugh at what was apparently one of the funniest lines in the play because I didn't understand any of it, and it was enough for her to conclude that I was a sociopath. Midway through the show, I saw her nudge her husband to put up their armrest so that she could scoot away from me.
I had my final exam today for my intensive course which went as well as could be expected, especially since vocab wasn't on it and I had the prof. correct it with me as soon as I was done. This coming week we're off to Madrid, Toledo, and Segovia to see the same things I saw either two years or four weeks ago, but it'll be nice to travel. I also have a friend from Bates who's in Madrid for the semester, so I'll see her then. After Madrid, I hop on a plane to Brussels for a few days, come back to Granada for two days of class, and then hop a few countries to visit London and my friend Steve who's studying at Oxford. I'll keep you posted.
What's new? I feel like I haven't written in ages. Hmmm. Well, one night last week there was a huge fashion show in the center of town produced by some of the local stores, which mainly consisted of seemingly fully-clothed models walking down the runway until - surprise! - they turned around and reminded everyone present that we were in Europe. That same night across the street there was a salsa/cha cha cha concert, and the plaza was filled with coupes over the age of 70 attempting to sway back and forth to the music. Really, really cute. I went to a show that night, a bedroom comedy that came to the Teatro de Isabel la Católica, the main/biggest theater in Granada, from Madrid. It was a Friday night, I really wanted to go to the theater, and didn't really feel like going with anyone. Besides, I believe that was the day that everyone was off on some Arab Bath experience with the group while I was in class, so they weren't around anyway. The show was funny, and it was great to be in a theater, but I only understood about 50 percent of what was going on, what with how fast the actors were speaking, the nuanced dialog, and the fact that I was sitting up in the 4th balcony three kilometers away vertically from the stage. You must understand, of course, that in Spain one doesn't do anything alone; even sitting on a park bench eating a donner kebap (a wonderful gyro-like Middle Eastern pita thingy) is enough to broadcast to the world that you are a social pariah - I know from experience. So, going to a show (which, like many things in Spain, started at 10:30 at night) by oneself is completely unheard of. I could tell that the woman who was seated next to me was already wary of the fact that I was alone, but combine that with the way I didn't laugh at what was apparently one of the funniest lines in the play because I didn't understand any of it, and it was enough for her to conclude that I was a sociopath. Midway through the show, I saw her nudge her husband to put up their armrest so that she could scoot away from me.
I had my final exam today for my intensive course which went as well as could be expected, especially since vocab wasn't on it and I had the prof. correct it with me as soon as I was done. This coming week we're off to Madrid, Toledo, and Segovia to see the same things I saw either two years or four weeks ago, but it'll be nice to travel. I also have a friend from Bates who's in Madrid for the semester, so I'll see her then. After Madrid, I hop on a plane to Brussels for a few days, come back to Granada for two days of class, and then hop a few countries to visit London and my friend Steve who's studying at Oxford. I'll keep you posted.
Friday, 19 September 2008
Chocolate
This post is dedicated to Lila.
Today I was on a walk around the city with one of the women who runs the program here, to learn where the library is, the best bars without Americans, stuff like that. I had my own, special walk because I missed the one with the big group while I was in class. At the end of the group's walk, the program treated everyone to an ice cream cone, and the woman asked me if I, too, would like one. Since I eat gelatto every day here anyway, I have my system (on my way to class), and I hadn't yet had any coffee, so I said, why don't we go to a coffee shop? Perfect. I had been meaning to try hot chocolate here for a while, because as you may have heard, "Spanish hot chocolate" is very different than in the US. They have something here called Cola Cao, which is essentially Nesquick, and you can drink it in hot or cold milk; it's basically hot chocolate mix. Their "hot chocolate," however, is essentially hot fudge which you might put on an ice cream sundae, but maybe even thicker and more chocolatey. Think of the "Chantico" that they used to serve at Starbucks before they ruined my life by discontinuing it. Anyway, so I ordered a "chocolate al café," which I figured would be something like a mocha in the US. I was wrong. Basically, it was a cup of hot fudge with a shot of espresso, and perhaps one of the best drinks I've ever had.
Then, interestingly, my "mom" offered me a banana after lunch, and I figured, why not dig out my jar of peanut butter? She had never tried it and, as she hates sweet things, hated it. I miss my natural, no-sugar-added, make-it-yourself Whole Foods honey-roasted peanut butter, but this Peter Pan stuff is a nice throwback to my childhood.
I'm going back tomorrow to get another hot chocolate. But now I'm running late for class, and if I'm going to have time to get gelatto on the way, I've gotta go now.
Today I was on a walk around the city with one of the women who runs the program here, to learn where the library is, the best bars without Americans, stuff like that. I had my own, special walk because I missed the one with the big group while I was in class. At the end of the group's walk, the program treated everyone to an ice cream cone, and the woman asked me if I, too, would like one. Since I eat gelatto every day here anyway, I have my system (on my way to class), and I hadn't yet had any coffee, so I said, why don't we go to a coffee shop? Perfect. I had been meaning to try hot chocolate here for a while, because as you may have heard, "Spanish hot chocolate" is very different than in the US. They have something here called Cola Cao, which is essentially Nesquick, and you can drink it in hot or cold milk; it's basically hot chocolate mix. Their "hot chocolate," however, is essentially hot fudge which you might put on an ice cream sundae, but maybe even thicker and more chocolatey. Think of the "Chantico" that they used to serve at Starbucks before they ruined my life by discontinuing it. Anyway, so I ordered a "chocolate al café," which I figured would be something like a mocha in the US. I was wrong. Basically, it was a cup of hot fudge with a shot of espresso, and perhaps one of the best drinks I've ever had.
Then, interestingly, my "mom" offered me a banana after lunch, and I figured, why not dig out my jar of peanut butter? She had never tried it and, as she hates sweet things, hated it. I miss my natural, no-sugar-added, make-it-yourself Whole Foods honey-roasted peanut butter, but this Peter Pan stuff is a nice throwback to my childhood.
I'm going back tomorrow to get another hot chocolate. But now I'm running late for class, and if I'm going to have time to get gelatto on the way, I've gotta go now.
Thursday, 18 September 2008
Coro
I had written an enormous post about my experience at the Chorus of the City of Granada yesterday, but I didn't really like it, so I decided to summarize it for you. Here goes:
* I was supposed to join the chorus of the University, but apparently the woman in my program office who was helping just decided to google "chorus granada" and picked the first chorus that came up.
*It was in the windowless basement of an old and crumbling building which may or may not have been a church, due to the signs proclaiming that "Jesus is Love," while other walls had bizarre modern art, and still other had what must have been cards from Rorschach tests. I couldn't put my finger on what was missing from the room until the director took out a box with a battery-operated Casio keyboard with a two-octave range.
*The Spanish choir members are all over 40 and are from all walks of life, and the other half of the chorus, HALF!, is made up of foreign students who all apparently googled the same thing, mainly blonds from California.
*I was the only base at the rehearsal, which went alright except that the conductor was upset that I told him I didn't need to go over my part again, when he asked, condescendingly, how many people from the chorus weren't from Spain.
*We sang three songs; one in Latin for which I could have given a pronunciation workshop, one in Catalan (a regional language in Spain) which no one spoke nor had any idea how to pronounce, and the Hallelujah Chorus from the Messiah, a piece in English which I know well, which was hilarious to hear sung by Spaniards with extremely thick Spanish accents.
*The worst moment of the day was when the woman who led us to the building came over after rehearsal to tell me how great we were and to thank me for coming. She leaned in a bit while she was saying goodbye, so I figured she was doing the two kiss thing again, so I leaned in, she leaned away, and I got completely flustered. I started asking her in English, "how does the kiss thing work...," when I realized she was looking at my strangely, since she had no idea what I was saying. Then I asked in Spanish, and she replied that it was to say hello and goodbye. "Yes," I thought, "that's what I was doing," when she laughed, told me it didn't matter at this point, and walked away. Argh, different cultures!
My friend from my group who also went to sing with the chorus and I aren't sure that we're going back. Unfortunately, the group's first concert is in the Capilla Real, a beautiful chapel attached to the main cathedral in Granada where Ferdinand and Isabella are buried along with their daughter, Juana la Loca (she wasn't actually crazy, but that's another post), her husband, and a grandchild. It's a beautiful place, and would be an honor to sing there (some bishop is coming!), but I'll be in London, and my friend will be in Morocco with the group. Oh well.
On another note, I just walked into the kitchen where my Señora is already cooking, and she told me that she was preparing a homemade cream of mushroom soup for me for dinner. "Oh," I said, "I loved that the last time," because she's already made it. "You've never had this! This is special soup, with mushrooms!" I argued with her for a second, because she made the soup last week, but I've accepted that she's losing her mind - she's been staying with a sick friend at the hospital every night for the last three nights and hasn't been getting much sleep. At least I like the soup, and I've still got about 1/4 of my jar of peanut butter left - I bought it a day and a half ago, but I'm a bit of an addict.
* I was supposed to join the chorus of the University, but apparently the woman in my program office who was helping just decided to google "chorus granada" and picked the first chorus that came up.
*It was in the windowless basement of an old and crumbling building which may or may not have been a church, due to the signs proclaiming that "Jesus is Love," while other walls had bizarre modern art, and still other had what must have been cards from Rorschach tests. I couldn't put my finger on what was missing from the room until the director took out a box with a battery-operated Casio keyboard with a two-octave range.
*The Spanish choir members are all over 40 and are from all walks of life, and the other half of the chorus, HALF!, is made up of foreign students who all apparently googled the same thing, mainly blonds from California.
*I was the only base at the rehearsal, which went alright except that the conductor was upset that I told him I didn't need to go over my part again, when he asked, condescendingly, how many people from the chorus weren't from Spain.
*We sang three songs; one in Latin for which I could have given a pronunciation workshop, one in Catalan (a regional language in Spain) which no one spoke nor had any idea how to pronounce, and the Hallelujah Chorus from the Messiah, a piece in English which I know well, which was hilarious to hear sung by Spaniards with extremely thick Spanish accents.
*The worst moment of the day was when the woman who led us to the building came over after rehearsal to tell me how great we were and to thank me for coming. She leaned in a bit while she was saying goodbye, so I figured she was doing the two kiss thing again, so I leaned in, she leaned away, and I got completely flustered. I started asking her in English, "how does the kiss thing work...," when I realized she was looking at my strangely, since she had no idea what I was saying. Then I asked in Spanish, and she replied that it was to say hello and goodbye. "Yes," I thought, "that's what I was doing," when she laughed, told me it didn't matter at this point, and walked away. Argh, different cultures!
My friend from my group who also went to sing with the chorus and I aren't sure that we're going back. Unfortunately, the group's first concert is in the Capilla Real, a beautiful chapel attached to the main cathedral in Granada where Ferdinand and Isabella are buried along with their daughter, Juana la Loca (she wasn't actually crazy, but that's another post), her husband, and a grandchild. It's a beautiful place, and would be an honor to sing there (some bishop is coming!), but I'll be in London, and my friend will be in Morocco with the group. Oh well.
On another note, I just walked into the kitchen where my Señora is already cooking, and she told me that she was preparing a homemade cream of mushroom soup for me for dinner. "Oh," I said, "I loved that the last time," because she's already made it. "You've never had this! This is special soup, with mushrooms!" I argued with her for a second, because she made the soup last week, but I've accepted that she's losing her mind - she's been staying with a sick friend at the hospital every night for the last three nights and hasn't been getting much sleep. At least I like the soup, and I've still got about 1/4 of my jar of peanut butter left - I bought it a day and a half ago, but I'm a bit of an addict.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)