I arrived safely in Granada. I'm gong to hold off telling you too much about the city until I can get out into it with my camera, but just know that it looks like the setting for an Indiana Jones movie, or perhaps Casablanca. The city was the last in Spain to be reconquered by the Catholic Kings (Ferdinand and Isabel) from the Moors, so much of its architecture - and even much of its culture - hasn't lost its Arabic influence.
I live about 30 minutes outside of where everything in the city is, with a 70 year-old señora from Italy and her 40 year-old son. She speaks Italian as her first language, but has been in Spain for 40 years, and only occasionally confuses me when she slips some Italian verb conjugation into the conversation. It's a little strange being so far away from the rest of my group - most people live in the center of the city - and not having a 100% "Spanish" homestay, but we live in a global world. The food, however, is wonderful.
Speaking of a global world, this morning I figured I would leave the house early to find some internet, read a paper, have a coffee, and do my homework. On the way to my favorite little coffee shop (which may no longer be my favorite, after my intense struggle this morning for an outdoor table), I picked up El País, Spain's equivalent of the New York Times. I was worried about coming to Spain because, as you may or may not know, I'm addicted to the Times, and not being able to read it puts a pretty significant damper on my day. Not to fear: upon sitting down at my table, I realized that the couple next to me came from the US, and were complaining about all of the people who smoke in Spain - it is frustrating. Flipping through the first four pages of El País, I was regaled with the ongoing saga of the presidential race in the US. Bear in mind that this is a Spanish paper. Then, at about page 20, an insert fell out of my paper onto the table with what heading but, the International Edition of the New York Times. Granted, they translated it into Spanish, but sitting on my café table in Granada, Spain were the same articles I could pick up at any Starbucks nationwide back at home. I was thrilled for a second, until it began to sink in just how non-immersive this experience has been so far. Between my school group which only speaks English, all the tourists (the main reason I didn't want to study in Madrid), my strange homestay, and my own English music and blog, well... I've gotta make more of a concerted effort. So, I'm off to start my homework on stereotyping people in Spanish.
Thursday, 4 September 2008
Tuesday, 2 September 2008
On the train
I´m writing now on the train from Madrid to Granada, because the ringing in my ears from my massive dose of Motrin currently prevents me from listening to my iPod. That had better go away. As you may know, I was planning on treating myself to riding the train in preferente, or first class, because it´s a five-hour train trip, they feed you, the seats are nicer, and there are no screaming children like I had on the train yesterday. That, and it isn?t that much money to upgrade. In actuality, when I bought my ticket, the guy never asked me which class I wanted, and I figured that I would use the extra money to eat in Granada. Remind me not to be so prudent in the future. This train, an Altaria is not like the AVE, the superfast (something like 200 MPH) beauty that I rode on the last time I was in Spain, but neither is it something from Amtrack - meaning it´s on time, quiet, and comfortable. Unfortunately, I´m currently sitting in the one bank of seats that is a foursome, two facing two, across from a couple that should really invest in a hotel room rather than a train ride, and across the aisle from a two or three year old who, while cute now, will wait until I can´t stand being on the train anymore to burst into an uncontrollable fit of screaming, should her parents not be able to find her patito(her duck stuffed- animal) in one of their twelve suitcases.
There´s another thing I´ve been meaning to comment on for a day or so, the sometimes - unorthodox - nightlife which Madrid has to offer. I stayed in a hotel on the Gran Vía, something like a midtown Fifth Ave in New York, with a funkier, East Village-y grittiness. You must bear in mind that this is an upscale, central, well-lit, busy street teeming with cops. Around seven or eight in the evenings, though, out come the women with six inch heels and animal-print handbags, many of whom congregate around the bizarre McCafé, a sort of upscale McDonald´s. Except for the disquieting glares, these people don´t really cause any problems (unless you WANT them to...), but it surprised me how many there are, and how openly they advertise their services, especially in front of uniformed police officers. Apparently, prostitution is in a sort of `legal limbo´ in Spain, so for the most part the women themselves aren´t bothered much. Of course, until today, I had never been outside at six in the morning, when the sun still isn´t up and the streets are still full of people enjoying the last hour or so of last night´s parties (which continue, by the way, until about 6:30 AM, especially since many bars are just then closing). While waiting for my taxi from the hotel which was 3o minutes late, and after dragging my 90 pound (literally!) suitcase with one wheel through the street, I was yelled at twice and jeered at least once while people came frighteningly close to my suitcases. The poor bellman, who accompanied me to the main street, away from the hotel, in the hopes of catching a passing taxi, stood there helplessly while muttering apologies to me in a language which I swear wasn´t Spanish. I smiled, made a mental note never to be out in Madrid alone past one in the morning, and prayed that I didn´t miss my train.
There´s another thing I´ve been meaning to comment on for a day or so, the sometimes - unorthodox - nightlife which Madrid has to offer. I stayed in a hotel on the Gran Vía, something like a midtown Fifth Ave in New York, with a funkier, East Village-y grittiness. You must bear in mind that this is an upscale, central, well-lit, busy street teeming with cops. Around seven or eight in the evenings, though, out come the women with six inch heels and animal-print handbags, many of whom congregate around the bizarre McCafé, a sort of upscale McDonald´s. Except for the disquieting glares, these people don´t really cause any problems (unless you WANT them to...), but it surprised me how many there are, and how openly they advertise their services, especially in front of uniformed police officers. Apparently, prostitution is in a sort of `legal limbo´ in Spain, so for the most part the women themselves aren´t bothered much. Of course, until today, I had never been outside at six in the morning, when the sun still isn´t up and the streets are still full of people enjoying the last hour or so of last night´s parties (which continue, by the way, until about 6:30 AM, especially since many bars are just then closing). While waiting for my taxi from the hotel which was 3o minutes late, and after dragging my 90 pound (literally!) suitcase with one wheel through the street, I was yelled at twice and jeered at least once while people came frighteningly close to my suitcases. The poor bellman, who accompanied me to the main street, away from the hotel, in the hopes of catching a passing taxi, stood there helplessly while muttering apologies to me in a language which I swear wasn´t Spanish. I smiled, made a mental note never to be out in Madrid alone past one in the morning, and prayed that I didn´t miss my train.
Segovia
All I wanted was a bottle of water. Should you ever come to Spain, I recommend being neither thirsty, hungry, nor in need of medical treatment between the hours of two and five in the afternoon, because everything will be closed and no one will care. I ended up in Segovia today as I planned, which involved a harrowing experience trying to get a ticket around 9:30 in the morning for the train. The cercan¡a out of the city took about two hours to reach the town where the Romans built a huge aqueduct and the foundations of a castle which Walt Disney used as a model for Cinderella Castle in Disney World, the ALCAZAR (which is really just a fancy Arabic word for castle). The town is beautiful and reeks of history, and as such the entire thing has been placed under UN protection as a World Heritage Site. (It was a toss up whether or not I went to Segovia in the first place, because my school program will eventually take everyone on a four-day weekend trip back to Madrid and Segovia in October, but I figure I´ll just head to London or Morocco?) The real fun started when I tried to catch the train back to Madrid. I mistakenly assumed that the train would leave not long after arriving from Madrid, and had only memorized the schedule for arrivals into Segovia. Needless to say, I was about and hour and 40 minutes early for the train, and decided to get something to drink, since it was all of 100 degrees. About an hour later, after a trip through several residential areas with no businesses whatsoever and several business areas with no people whatsoever, it became painfully obvious that everyone was at home taking their siesta and not caring that I was now on the verge of collapse after exerting myself in the heat for a drink which I had only fleeting thoughts of getting in the first place because of my boredom. I walked past closed café‚ after restaurant after pharmacy (which are nothing like a CVS), and finally came upon a Brazilian barbecue where I sucked down a coke at a bar while being scrutinized by several regular patrons; I was thirstier than ever in about three minutes because of the sugar. Then I got to walk the five kilometers back to the station.
On the train home, an older señora sat next to me, about the time when I could no longer stave off taking a desperately-needed nap. Apparently she wasn't thrilled that I attempted to use her as a pillow, and quickly changed her seat. Arriving back in Madrid, I bought a four-Euro chicken salad at the Spanish equivalent of McDonald's and a huge package of cookies at El Corte Ingles, a department store/supermarket, and sat in my room popping Motrin for my bruises and sprains and cookies for my mental health while watching British sitcoms on my computer. I simply didn´t have the energy to wait until 10 at night when people start to think about heading to dinner.
On the train home, an older señora sat next to me, about the time when I could no longer stave off taking a desperately-needed nap. Apparently she wasn't thrilled that I attempted to use her as a pillow, and quickly changed her seat. Arriving back in Madrid, I bought a four-Euro chicken salad at the Spanish equivalent of McDonald's and a huge package of cookies at El Corte Ingles, a department store/supermarket, and sat in my room popping Motrin for my bruises and sprains and cookies for my mental health while watching British sitcoms on my computer. I simply didn´t have the energy to wait until 10 at night when people start to think about heading to dinner.
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