Is there anything to talk about other than food?

My dinner last night was three meatballs. Surprise, surprise: I didn't eat them. When mi madre asked what the problem was, I told her I wasn't very hungry and that was all. I excused myself from the table, went to my room, and started eating my Teddy Grahams. Five minutes later, she walks into my room. Busted. Dang it.

In other news, yesterday was our weekly futbol game. I have super mixed feelings about that sport. I somehow manage to hurt even the body parts that you are forbidden to use [Sidebar: Hey Sarah, what's up?]. I killed my wrist and can't move it in a full circular motion, but then again I did run into a wall so you tell me.

Next week is our final exam week. I seriously can't believe it. I have mixed feelings about leaving here too. I miss my home comforts, but I am going to be so sad to leave beautiful, beautiful Spain. If I don't find a way to come back someday, I won't die a very happy girl.

Granada

My apologies, I don't have any adventures that went terribly wrong to recount, but on the plus side, I don't have any adventures that went terribly wrong that I can recount.

I absolutely loved Granada. The Alhambra is probably one of my favorite things I have seen since I have been in Spain. I have a lot of pictures so look for those soon. We stayed in a beautiful hotel that was across the street from El Corte Ingles, which is a super Americanized superstore (like a mall and 5 Wal-Marts combined) where we all bought recognizable snack items and probably got way more excited than that actually warranted.

Our second night we went to my second Flamenco show, and it was even better the second time around. I have a video that I will try to post later today so you can get an idea of what it is really like.

In other news, yesterday, after returning to Cadiz (yay!), nuestra madre greeted us with a lunch that consisted of two pieces of unidentified lunch meat and stale bread. We somehow managed to make it look like we ate enough of it as not to offend her. By dinner, we were both starving and looking forward to a new meal. But as fate would have it, dinner was a boiled egg each and cut up peppers. Oh, and in the defense of the defendant, there were yogurt cups for dessert. Since it was Sunday and the family had left for mass, we decided to scour the kitchen and cook ourselves a real meal. After 15 minutes of searching for something edible (things take longer when you're dancing and singing karaoke at the top of your lungs), we found some delicious cheese tortellini and basil tomato sauce. Buen provecho.

Fortunately, we went to bed before the family returned from mass, but I am curious as to what kind of conversation will ensue when mi madre finds her cut up peppers and eggs in the trash along with the tortellini wrapper and sauce can. I have a feeling we are going to have some serious explaining to do...

Conil.

First and foremost, I would like to apologize for the lack of dedication I have shown with this blog. I know it has been very hard on all of you, but I vow to do better from here on out. Actually, I haven't been quite as floja as it may seem...I wrote a post about a week ago and forgot to post it. So yes. That is just as bad. Regardless, here it is:

This past weekend we were given Friday off from school so that we could have a longer weekend for traveling. After planning/discussing trips for places all over Europe, I think every single person ended up going somewhere within Spain. What can I say? Spain es lo mejor.

Friday morning started off with a ferry ride to Puerto Real to see some historical edificios (including a castle where Cristobol Colon stayed) and a museum of one of Picasso’s painter friends. Is it terrible that I don’t even remember his name? I’ll be the judge.

Yes. It’s terrible.

After the return, we all took a bus to Conil. We had all been told Conil has beautiful beaches and beautiful “pueblos blancos.” And let me tell you. We were not disappointed. We somehow managed to find the perfect hotel overlooking the ocean. Sarah and I were so excited that we didn’t have to stay in a gross hostal that we had a happy dance on our balcony from which we could see the ocean on one side and the pueblo blanco on the other. Perfection.

The plan was to catch a bus to Gibraltar the next day, go hiking, and play with monkeys. That didn’t happen. We went to the wrong bus stop and by the time we realized it, our only option was to go back to Cadiz. It wasn’t a huge disappointment though because our new plan was to go to Gibraltar the next day, which would give us the opportunity to go back to Puerto Real to see the bull fight that night.

So. We are back in Cadiz. Three hours later, catch a ferry to Puerto Real. Get to the Plaza de Torros. Find out the bullfight is in Sanlucar. Ask for directions. Find the bus stop. Take a 20-minute bus ride to Sanlucar. Ask for directions. Find La Plaza de Torros. We are 30 minutes late and tickets are sold out. Buy super expensive ones. Run into the stadium and cram in between thousands of Spaniards. Watch 6 bulls get murdered. Follow car traffic on foot for 20 minutes. Ask for directions. Walk 25 minutes to the bus stop. Busses are gone. Trains are gone. Try to get a taxi for 5 people. Can’t. Try to get 2 taxis. Can’t. Try to get on a different bus line. Oh, wait. That bus driver told you those exist? They don’t. Want to get food, but have to save money to get home. Get directions to a taxi pick-up. Walk 15 minutes. Wait in line for 20 minutes. Pray to God for a van taxi. Doesn’t happen. Pay 120 euro for 2 taxis. Back in Cadiz. Cancel trip to Gibraltar. Exhausted, broke, and starving, but not mad because we are in Spain having the adventures of our lives.   

The language the whole world understands

Yesterday I went home during the two-hour break between my first and second classes for the sole purpose of eating a Nutella and jelly sandwich. Due to the fact that I don’t often come home in between classes, I just about gave mi madre a heart attack when she walked through the kitchen and found me licking jelly off of my butter knife.

Sidebar: She thinks it is hysterical slash really weird how in love I am with a children’s sandwich. She also told me to be careful with all that Nutella in the summertime because I will fatten up. Gracias madre.

After she was satisfied with the scolding she gave me for not alerting her that I was home, she sat down and began a conversation about…oh that’s right. I have no idea. I don’t know how it started, but before I knew what was happening, she had pulled out a photo album, and the two of us proceeded to flip through the pages of her past.

Me encanta mi madre. She showed me pictures of Cadiz, her family, her children—all the things that are important to her. When we got to her wedding photos (taken around 30 years ago), I asked her to tell me all about su boda.

She told me the story of how she and Pepe (su marido) met, and it was so precious. I told her that I could tell that they were still very much in love, to which she replied (roughly translated), “I love him so much. He is a good man, a good husband, a good son, a good father, a good brother…a good man. Pepe es mi amor por toda mi vida.” She started tearing up, and I was at a loss for words—both Spanish and English.

I can only pray that one day, after being married for 30 years, I will be able to say the same thing about my own husband.

In other news, I got my butt grabbed twice by the same man yesterday and just about lost all my composure. After the first time he touched me, he turned around and followed me down the street because apparently one grab just wasn’t enough. Since of course I don’t freak out in Spanish, I quite literally yelled “STOP” in English…a lot of good that would have done me in a real emergency situation. After I yelled and turned to face him, he scampered away.

My dream man.

La Policia

In order to share this hugely important revelation I have had regarding the police, I would first like to share two recent events in my life. The first takes place in Madrid and the second in Morocco.

A couple of weeks ago, at the onset of our trip, we spent several nights in the beautiful city of Madrid. On our second night, my friend Sarah and I were walking down the street toward our hotel, when suddenly a small riot formed and made itself known.

Sidebar: I’m not sure what is making the news in the US, but there is somewhat of a “revolucion” going on here in Spain. Even in Cadiz, protestors have been sleeping in the plazas, demanding a political change for their country. This particular event happened right before some elections, so the city was a little on edge.

Suddenly, people started fleeing the streets as if the riot was headed straight towards them. The two of us started panicking a little bit but were quickly comforted as we saw the police running our way. “Thank God, the police are here,” quite literally went through my head. For a split second, I felt relief and a small sense that everything was going to be okay. I almost didn’t believe my eyes when I saw a policeman take out some kind of beating stick (sorry for my lack of knowledge in police weaponry) and beat a woman, whose only crime was slow feet, across the back and leave her there. It was then that I realized that the people were actually running from the police.

Shocked, Sarah grabbed my wrist and we ran into the closest building, which, thank God, just so happened to be our hotel.

The second story takes place in Tangier. It is a little less “thrilling,” but contains all the same amount of “shock” element. I’ve already filled everyone in on Zeezy and how he quickly became a very important person in my life. When we first decided to allow him to be our guide, I was still a little unsure about it and I let it show. He tried to appease my fears by saying, “Want to ask the police? Here, come here. This policeman right here will tell you that I am an official guide,” which is exactly was the policeman did.

Although it makes no difference to me, I have good reason to doubt Zeezy is or has ever been an official guide. At the end of our tour, he dropped us off right before we reached the gates where we had encountered said policeman. At first, he didn’t say why he wasn’t taking us through the gates, but after we paid him (with a very generous tip thanks to Tyler) and took our pictures with him, I think he finally decided to trust us. After asking him to clarify the directions to our ferry several times, he told me, “The reason I can’t take you past the gates is because the policeman is going to want some of the profits.” I'll let you fill in the obvious blanks.

We (the three amigos) had also been forewarned not to take anything from anyone because apparently people will hand you drugs, call the police on you, the police then arrest you for illegal drugs, get money for it, and give a portion of it to the people who placed the drugs in your hand in the first place. I’m sorry. What?

I could easily take these stories and spin them in a way as to find some political scandal that carries throughout all government systems or complain how our tax dollars are feeding crime and inefficiency even in the US. I’m not going to do that. There is a reason that I felt a sense of security and safety when the police first appeared in Madrid. The subconscious connotations I have made with police officers are that they will protect us innocent bystanders and “catch the bad guys.” In Marruecos, I thought that a policeman’s word was good and trustworthy. In the US, I have to believe that it actually is.

Granted, I realize that nobody is perfect, and there are police officers in the US who are power drunk (ahem, traffic cops), and I’m sure that there is even the occasional scandal within the system. Nevertheless, I know for a fact that if I ask a policeman for help, he won’t lie to my face so that he can make a little extra money—or worse, beat me across the back and throw me to the ground.

What I’m trying to say is, I am grateful for the officers of the US who protect us everyday and give us a feeling of security, even if it is only subconscious.

My goodness, what is happening to me? I’m so patriotic I don’t even know what to do with myself.

In other news, I had the best frozen yogurt of my entire life today right after I went to el “Super Centro” to buy peanut butter and jelly (Did I ever mention I’ve been craving peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for the past like two weeks?). Peanut butter doesn’t exist here so I had to substitute it with Nutella. I ate three sandwiches with it. Sue me.

Yesterday was our weekly “futbol” game. I sprained my ankle and spent all last night icing it. Mi hermano says that if I practice once a week for a year that I will be very good. Little does he know that in four weeks, I’m going back to America where “football” is only for dudes.

La Aventura de Tres Amigos en Marruecos

My grandpa used to tell me the most absurd stories. He would sit for hours on end recounting his adventures of youth and telling tales I almost never fully believed. I think most of us have a grandparent, or even parent, who meets this description. There really is just no logical way all of their stories in their entirety could be true.

Yesterday, I went to Morocco. For those of you who are even more geographically challenged than I, yes, that is in Africa. My yesterday is filled with stories that I know I will tell my grandchildren one day, and there is a very good chance that they won’t ever fully believe me.

Actually, the real story begins even before our arrival in Tangier. The real story begins at approximately 6:46 am with the words, “I forgot my passport.” In my experience, those kinds of phrases are almost always followed up with a very clever, “Just kidding.” But not this one. This one was followed up with Sam (the planner and organizer of our three-amigo trip) throwing his backpack to the floor and sprinting straight out the door. Did I mention our bus was to leave at 7:00 am?

As Tyler (the 2^nd of the three-amigo trip) and I sat at the bus stop staring at the clock, we were 100% sure Sam would never make it back. One way to the front step of his house is about a 15 minute walk, and he only had 14 minutes to not only go both ways, but to also run inside and find his passport. “Oh well, we can still take the 11 o’clock bus?”

Then, a miracle happened that goes by the name of, “Sam is a beast.” With quite literally seconds to spare, he came running through the door, and the three of us (after I screamed a little bit) made a dash for the bus. We bought our tickets on the bus as it was pulling away. I honestly still do not understand how Sam could have possibly made that run in the time that he did. Before yesterday, I would’ve said it was impossible.

After the passport incident, I should have been prepared for anything that was thrown our way. But that, of course, would have just made things too easy.

The bus took us to Tarifa, where we were to find the ferry to take us to Tangier. Fortunately, we managed to do that with no real problems. And as it turns out, a “ferry” is more like a cruise ship slash airplane combo. Imagine the outsides of a cruise ship and the insides of an airplane. Boom. Spanish ferry.

Once the ferry arrived in Tangier, we all moved to the bottom of the boat where a huge levered door very slowly and dramatically, with lots of beeping and clanking, lowered onto African soil. As soon as it hit the ground, an entire mob of men ran onto the ship, yelling and grabbing people’s arms, trying to be their guide or just straight out hustle them. And when I say, “ran,” I am not just choosing a general term to describe some kind of movement. I quite literally mean that they ran onto that boat. Both Sam and I actually have it on film; however, they both cut off after we realize the immediate danger our cameras were suddenly in. 

We lasted about 10 seconds before someone decided to make us his innocent, American prey. The conversations went something like this:

Guide: Let me take you through the city.

Sam: We don’t want a guide.

Guide: I’m not a guide; I’m just a hustler.

Me: Clearly, you don’t know what that word means.

I’m not going to lie. By the time we reached the city, I was scared. [Sidebar: If your name is Karen or Tom Losinger, either skip over this or just know that I am okay and I’m not going back to Africa, so esta bien.] As if our light skin and American clothes didn’t give us away enough already, my blonde hair was practically begging the Muslims to hustle us. I am not exaggerating when I say we turned every head we walked by.

Sam, Tyler, and I had previously decided to explore the city by ourselves and to not waste money on a hoax guide. But as the three of us stood in the middle of this entirely new world, we all reached the same conclusion: get a guide, or very possibly get killed.

There was no dispute over who we wanted to be our guide. It was a man whose name sounded something like “Hazeez” (I’ll call him Zeezy) and spoke perfect English, which was entirely necessary since the only two acceptable languages there are French and Arabic (neither of which we know anything about). Zeezy had foreseen that we would change our minds about getting a guide and told us that he would wait for us to come back and get him. I guess he had encountered college kids before, because that is exactly what we did.

I think I am just going to preface these next few parts by saying that Zeezy was a gift from God. I didn’t trust him at first, but as we all later agreed, the three of us most definitely would have been robbed or harmed one way or another during that trip if it had not been for his protection and guidance. Even still, at the time, I was in constant prayer that the next ally we were led down wasn’t going to be our last. I realize how dramatic that sounds, but if you had seen the surroundings we were in, you would know how serious I actually am.

Remember the movie “Taken” with Liam Neeson? I used to like that movie. That is, I liked that movie up until yesterday when the possibilities of that actually happening to me skyrocketed to pretty good odds. The only difference between me and the girl in the beginning of that movie is that my dad (I love you Dad) is not Liam Neeson, and I could very well die at the hands of a old, fat, Muslim man. Zeezy didn’t help calm those fears. In fact, he increased them by telling Tyler and Sam, and I quote, “Stay close together, you don’t want to lose her. If we do [lose her], she will end up in someone’s harem tonight.” Oh, is that all?

Anyways, Zeezy ended up taking us to all the places we had been planning to see on our own, plus some. We saw a snake charmer, went to Kasbah, shopped in the markets, ate at a Moroccan restaurant, and…rode camels! Okay, we didn’t really so much as ride them as much as we walked in circles on them, but even still, it was pretty memorable.

Other than another incident of forgetting to get our passports stamped and sprinting through customs to make our ferry back to Spain, I can’t think of any more real issues to report.

All in all, I could not be more pleased with myself for going on this adventure. It was terrifying, but I also thoroughly enjoyed myself. You know the saying, “There’s a fine line between love and hate.” Well, there very well may also be a fine line between being scared for your life and having the time of your life.

I can also say that never before have I felt such, in the words of Sam, “a strong allegiance to Spain.” Until yesterday, I have felt like the outsider that I am in this world. But when our ferry docked back onto the shores of this beautiful land, I felt like I was home. More still, as I walked through the streets of a very different world in Tangier, I was also so proud to be an American. Call me cheesy, but America truly is “The Great,” and I love it dearly.

PS. Stay tuned for more details of Spain and Africa in a little expose I like to call: La Policia.

Intercambios Linguisticos

About a week ago, some of us UGA kids got together with some English-studying spanish students for a good old "language exchange." We were given different topics of conversation, alternating between languages, and paired up with a partner of the opposite language to speak for about 10 minutes en cada tema. I'm not going to lie, I felt pretty good about myself after those little exchanges. Turns out my spanish measures up quite nicely to some people's English. I had to speak super slowly and in words with no more than 2 syllables to get any point across.

For a split second, I was frustrated that the amount of comprehension that was happening was close to zero, but when that second was over, I fell even more in love with mi familia, and even mis profesoras, who have to deal with my spanish every day. Those poor souls. I would never be able to put up with being forced to speak like a dysfunctional robot for two months.

All in all, el intercambio was a fun experience, so when it came time for the next one (a noche), I was excited to go and feel good about myself all over again. Feel a twist coming on? If so, I give you permission to feel good about yourself for about 5 seconds because you are exactly right.

So last night was the second intercambio. (Ps. your time is up). First of all, there were barely any estudiantes espanoles there to begin with, but the few that I did talk to were essentially bilingual. Needless to say, I'm pretty sure we spoke in English 86% of the time.

Here's to hoping for poor students at the next one.