One of the best parts of being abroad is it forces you to isolate your little behaviors and idiosyncrasies and really takes a long look at them, which is about as painful as it sounds. In order to communicate something in another language you first have to think about how you would say it in English and what tone/mood/ feeling you want to relate. While I’m having enough trouble just asking Paquita where she keeps the toilet paper, I also have to navigate the tricky Spanish university social system, which is basically the exact opposite of the culture at Marist. There are almost no extracurriculars you can lean on to meet new people/forget about your lack of social skills. And the kids in my classes already have their friends and it’s generally not culturally “normal” to talk to strangers. You can ask them a question and they will answer completely and politely, but, at least for me it hasn’t lead to much more. Usually, I scrape up something witty or universally relatable to keep things going with a new aquaintance but the Spanish cut to the chase. How have I survived without my edgy, inane, New Yorker banter?
When you are single and planning to go abroad, everyone tells you “ U gOnNa mEeT sO mAnY sPaNiSh hOtTiEs” and magically a lifetime of romantic mishaps will disappear and you will have the tios buying you tapas left and right. It’s a very nice idea that was very nicely enforced by Vicky Cristina Barcelona, but once I arrived, I quickly dropped that illusion and decided that this experience was about me and not rando Spanish dudes. It’s all scary enough without having to worry about getting hurt or contracting some type of SDTD ( Spainish Discoteca Transmitted Disease). But that doesn’t mean I’ve stopped appreciating what’s right in front of me. As I said, there is a very mysterious, very attractive Colombian guy that sits next to me every day in music class- he has that scruffy hippie thing going that I like. I was very confused the first day he sat down next to me and asked my name. Huh? Was someone actually speaking to me of their own accord? Was this person considered attractive by the general public? Weird. The next day, I figured we’d move on to talking about the weather or the syllabus, but he was silent – and so was I. The next few weeks continued in the same way – we didn’t talk, even though I tried to put some effort into my appearance those days.
When I finally said to myself “whatever,” I used the extra time I wasn’t spending on my appearance to geek out on my laptop before class. Who taps me on the shoulder and starts chattering away but mysterious Latin hippie. He was cracking jokes, agreeing with me, asking follow-up questions, etc. I had no idea what was going on. We chatted amicably through the end of class and at the end, he suggested that we exchange numbers. Gulp. This was maybe the 2nd time in my life a guy had asked for my number- and the 1st was one of my more embarrassing moments of recent history. When I say the 2nd time, I mean in a social situation. Usually when guys ask for my number they missed class and need the notes. I gave him my number and he tried to call it, but alas he had no money on his phone – bad omen #1. So he decided to give me his. It was at that moment that I realized I was sweating and my knees were knocking and I no longer understood Spanish. Why was this happening? I know nothing about this guy, have absolutely nothing invested in him, and he wears a fanny pack ( ok ok I know that a fanny pack is a dealbreaker, but at the time I was trying to play it off as a cultural nuance that I didn’t understand). He repeated his number a few times, but my hands were shaking and I couldn’t enter it in my phone, so he mercifully took it and did it himself. God, this gets more tragic every time I recount it. He went off and that was that. He didn’t call me. I didn’t call him. We still chit chat from time to time but that’s the extent of it. So for all of you who were wondering about my love life here – there it is.
So all of this has led me to examine how I interact with guys that I am interested in/are interested in me( from what little I can discern), which as I’m finding out more and more, is a little non sensical. Although I KNOW I’m not the only girl who thinks along these lines. I’d say I’m less of a Rubik’s cube and more a “Chamber of Secrets” – (save your snickers, judgment, and sexual innuendo for later). I’ve set up a bunch of puzzles and traps to keep people out or let them reach a certain point and then let them get eaten by Fluffy the 3 headed dog. So as an exercise for myself and a case study for the general public, I present the process of attraction, as seen through my bespectacled eyes.
If I Think Someone is Attractive
1. I wonder where his girlfriend is.
2. Oh, I see her. She just bought a Fruit and Yogurt cup and diet iced tea from the cab.
3. I should probably go finish the last season of Arrested Development while I devour this chicken parm.
I’d say about 40% of the time – things end there. Thanks Marist male to female ratio.
Let’s say for some reason this person is unattached. I usually find an extraneous reason not to like him/ think he is the scum of the earth (he spelled you’re/your wrong or under his favorite book section on facebook he wrote – who reads?) or I simply get lazy and stop caring. When you are used to your life a certain way, it’s hard to convince yourself that a change could be for the best. Even though I can’t say I’ve put in tremendous efforts as of late, my lack of success in high school still follows me around sometimes and reminds me of the insecure mess I used to be, and suddenly I feel inadequate.
If by some strange chance, he passes the grammar gauntlet and hasn’t done anything offensive (ex. Wear a Nickelback concert T or refused to use the recycling bin). I might be ready to admit that I actually like this person. Especially if we have good banter going- gosh I love a good good banter. Friends, boyfriends, teachers, acquaintances, political candidates- I don’t care who you are – if we don’t have an established set of banter topics, we’re on a one way train to nowhere. Keep in mind that this process could take weeks or months.
Now most girls have some type of sure fire method they use to get a guy’s attention. Giggle. Hairflip. Going to his game Laughing at things that aren’t funny. I don’t know what this kid’s do these days. I have little to no flirting skills – usually because I fear that they would come off as disingenuous because I can’t pull it off. Despite it all, I really believe that there are people out there that find authenticity attractive. Nothing is sexier than someone who cares about what’s going on in the world, has an opinion, and is brave enough to talk about it, as well as people that are willing to be open about their quirks and imperfections, instead of acting like they don’t exist. I like people that are obsessed with something ( in a good, normal, non-psychotic way) –whether that’s hiking, Civil War maps, or 90’s music.
So I flex my personality muscles, because I believe I’m different because of who I am, not what I look like (usually disheveled). I’ve got time. Some of my other latest flirting go tos include flaunting my knowledge of YouTube sensations, playing Super Smash brothers/ Halo, talking about recent issues of TIME magazine, sending witty text messages, discussing agricultural policy, bragging about my Free Cell winning streak, debating Biggie vs Tupac, wearing my best cardigan, etc. All things that I genuinely like but hard to transition into any romantic anything. It’s just enough to feel like I’m trying but not enough for any guy to really think twice about it; because these aren’t as much flirting techniques as normal everyday friend activity. The number one rule of Dating for Emilys is NEVER do anything that would give the guy and obvious clue aka make a move physically or tell him. This is all about tension, build- up, confusion, and inklings. You know, the fun stuff
Ok let’s say this poor soul is showing interest in me. Now it’s really time to panic. Launch the escape pods, sound the alarm, this is not a test. Shit. What now? I’m not programmed to go past this point. In the past I’ve followed this game plan:
1. Panic.
2. Ask my housemates for advice.
3. Panic.
4. Imagine fantastic future disaster that could result from this/any relationship, for example, I end up pregnant, addicted to drugs, and living by the railroad tracks.
5. Ignore said situation and said person until everything goes away aka act like an asexual cyborg
In a nutshell, if I’ve I liked someone and there’s the slightest glimmer of possible reciprocation I’ve usually panicked and ruined things for myself. I like when people don’t like me or are too tangled up to do anything about it. It’s safe and I know what’s going to happen next. There have been a few brief, sun drenched moments when my guard was down and things felt right and I took a few itsy bitsy risks. I go back to those memories when I think about how I would like to be when I return.
Although I have had experiences and enjoyed a level of independence that I would never trade, I wonder what life is like on the other side of the bubble. My sister has been in the same very functional relationship for more than 3 years and is just as happy and independent as I am, although in a different way, and I have no concept of what that is like. There are reasons why people write so many love songs and sonnets and cross continents for love and lust. I believe that it is all as wonderful as it is made out to be – but falling in love with life and with my friends and with myself have been equally wonderful and I’m content taking things as they come and letting people, including men, into my world a little bit more. For the time being, I have convinced myself that I am a beautiful, funny, intelligent person and maybe I won’t be freaked out if someone else thinks so too.
This blog isn’t filled with subliminal messages that someone is supposed to receive and suddenly realize that I’ve loved them all my life. I’m just trying my best to be brutally honest with myself and when I share it with the blogosphere, it helps to soften the blow. It’s meant to remind me that other people might be just as freaked out as I am and that I should be patient with them, as I have been with myself. And it is a helpful nudge for guys who find themselves interested in a slightly nerdy and fiercely independent girl ( if you need to know where to find one, holler at me - I know oodles). Let her feel smart and funny and beautiful, but be patient. Take her cues or seeming lack there of – there will be a moment when she lets you in.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Friday, November 6, 2009
How deep is your love?
Life after Paris is hard. Everything seems very square and bourgeois after strolling around the Seine. I pity any trip that comes after Paris because it really doesn’t stand a chance. In my case, I pity Palma, Mallorca, which was our next slated trip. I can’t say I was overly excited– I was a little road weary and not eager to board another RyanAir flight. We also heard that Mallorca was known for slipping drugs into drinks; even the waiters at restaurants were not to be trusted. However, the clusterbumble across Europe must continue AND two of my favorite people from Marist were planning on meeting me there: my faithful roomie, kindred spirit, and first Marist friend, Alana, and my sanity inducing, movie night, bandie fo’life, Aileen. In an effort to save money, the Salamanca crew had bought copious amounts of food at the grocery store and stuffed as much as we could into our luggage. There would be a kitchen at the hostel and we were planning on cooking/living off of our fat stores as much as possible. I kid you not; my luggage was 60% food, including a whole bag of cereal and 7 bocadillos. The security people probably thought we were part of some underground ham trading rings, but if they did they didn’t care. The metal detector guy was from Salamanca and pretty much fell in love with us all (“Americans and Spaniards are the same – we like to eat and drink!”), so we had nothing to worry about.
We made it to the hostel with no problems without any problems (e.g. unknowingly circling ourselves around unattended luggage) and it turns out that we had a HUGE apartment all to ourselves and the hostel was run by very nice British people. Being in Mallorca, it was easy to forget that you’re in Spain, mostly because you are constantly surrounded by lots of jolly, blonde, Germans. No one speaks Spanish. No one looks Spanish.. All the restaurants were either Kebab places advertising falafel and XL bratwurst for 2 euro or just straight up German food restaurants – like Grillmeister. Apparently, our neighborhood was called “Little Germany.” It was also the off season for Mallorca so there were absolutely no tourists there, so that means the most visible beachgoers were the lovely folks from all of the retirement homes in the area = not exactly the Rafa Nadal beach sighting I was hoping for. Alana and Aileen met us at the hostel and I smothered them with hugs and we caught up on all the Marist talk for an hour or two before we went to hit the town to find dinner and ecstasy-free entertainment.
We walked for a very long time without finding many places that were actually open. Then to our right we noticed life size plaster models of dinosaurs and saw the bright lights of the Dino Park Mini-golf and Entertainment complex guiding us to what would become our home in Mallorca. We checked the events calendar and struck gold – Bee Gee’s tribute band performing tonight at 9. I LIVE for gratuitous displays of tastelessness such as this. All was not lost. Not wanting to be late, all 9 of us hurried back to the hostel for a little dinner and some pre Bee Gees cocktails (Pre Gees, if you will). When we finally arrived at this gala, we made up 9 of the 11 people there, not including the waiters. The Bee Gees Fever, as these 3 strapping Germans called themselves, wore white pants, purple tie dye silk shirts, and left jaunty accessories to individual choice (a fedora, John Lennon glasses, or a large pendant). And this extravaganza was not without special effects. Oh no no. Smoke machine, disco ball, multimedia video presentation of the Bee Gee’s in the background. They played all the hits. A few drunken middle aged ladies showed up at the end – it was clearly not their first time at the Dino Park Bee Gee’s Fever show. They were up out of their seats dancing and giving money to the tall, long haired Bee Gee (Andy Gibb?) and at one point even grabbed Alana and dragged her onto the dance floor. At the end, the Bee Gees took requests …. Hell, yes. Laura and I softly started chanting for Wonderwall and the Bee Gees instantly started in with it. I laughed so hard I nearly lost my bocadillo. They had to stop midway through because they didn’t know the words, but damn it they gave it all they had. The waiters and staff clearly hated the Bee Gees and were sick of seeing their act every Saturday from 9 to 11, so they herded them off stage by closing all the blinds and threatening to turn off the lights. We got a picture with 2 of the 3 Bee Gees at the end. The 3rd had run to the dressing room and was unfortunately “sin pantalones.”
The next day I had to say good-bye to Aileen and Alana, but not before we fit in breakfast and a round of putt putt at Dino Park. Dino Park was clearly fabulous, but there was an interesting character at the hostel breakfast every day. Around 10 each morning a middle aged rather rotund man, complete with mustache would amble in and say “I’ll have a coffee, Alan” to the bartender and would sit at the computer for 3 hours chain smoking and scrolling through pictures of what appeared to be mail order brides. They were mostly young Asian women wearing ironic hats. SO creepy. We spent the day at the beach dozing in the sun and we spent the night talking and listening to bad pop songs on our improvised sound system (iPod headphones in a champagne flute). And that concludes our trip to Mallorca- not a culturally eye opening trip, but definitely a good break from our grueling travel schedule. I couldn’t be more thankful for Alana and Aileen. They are absolute melocotones and reminded me that I am coming home to a load of people who love me no matter what (and it’s mutual).
Oops – I forgot one lovely little tidbit of information. On the way back to Salamanca, we had to take the metro in between the Madrid airport and the train station. Fine. We’ve done that many a time and the Madrid metro is actually surprisingly pleasant. Well on that day the metro was a rough ride – very sudden stop and go – and it was crowded. So at one of the stops I lost my balance ( shocking) and managed this kind of Matrix-esque flamingo move- I kept one foot planted while the other one swung around and kicked some guy in the back of the knees. Having recovered my luggage, I squeaked out a “Sorry” and looked for the nearest hole that I could disappear into. The guy didn’t respond and said something to his friend that I couldn’t understand (listening to a German Bee Gees tribute band doesn’t bode well for language acquisition). I thought that was that and I was alone to process yet another awkward moment, but Madrid never lets you rest. At the next stop, the guy I kicked and his friend go to get off, and his friend (who was about 5’3, gelled hair, and tight white polo shirt) gets in my face, say “Sorry” in a high voice and gives me a swift swat on the arse. Listen, I know my Old Navy cargo pants are verrry irresistible and I commend your excellent taste in posteriors, but surely there was another way to deal with that situation? No one else really saw this little exchange and at the time I had absolutely no reaction. Looking back, I think it’s hilarious in a twisted way and I now have a litany of responses ready for any other Metro swatters.
As I am writing, my parents are landing in Spain and will be here for the next 10 days and seeing the sights (I had to insist that there were other things to see in Spain besides me). And I guess my dad must really like me since this trip involves a frightful combination of his two least favorite things: planes and water. I am very very excited to see them, but I will admit that I feel a little strange about having them in Salamanca. This place is the first place I have been truly independent. I was not anyone’s daughter or sister or previous student. Whatever life I have here is totally and completely mine and it will be interesting to try to include my parents in it for the next few days. They are very cool about it all and I’m sure will read this and know how I feel. But I need hugs and some unconditional love and my parents are just freakin’adorable. I am excited to share my experiences, my new home, and my new ideas with them and if it wasn’t for them, I definitely would not be here. We’d like to think that we arrive wherever we are all by our own bootstraps and in the more immediate past, that is usually true. I filled out the forms, got these grades, etc. But thinking back, all the prudent choices that my parents made before I even knew where Spain was are what allowed me to study abroad. What a cool thing to give your child, if that’s what they want. I hope that my kids will want this experience and that I will be able to help them get there. And by “there” I mean Dino Park.
PS If a swing dancer can make it to Salamanca within the week, he/she will be handsomely rewarded.
We made it to the hostel with no problems without any problems (e.g. unknowingly circling ourselves around unattended luggage) and it turns out that we had a HUGE apartment all to ourselves and the hostel was run by very nice British people. Being in Mallorca, it was easy to forget that you’re in Spain, mostly because you are constantly surrounded by lots of jolly, blonde, Germans. No one speaks Spanish. No one looks Spanish.. All the restaurants were either Kebab places advertising falafel and XL bratwurst for 2 euro or just straight up German food restaurants – like Grillmeister. Apparently, our neighborhood was called “Little Germany.” It was also the off season for Mallorca so there were absolutely no tourists there, so that means the most visible beachgoers were the lovely folks from all of the retirement homes in the area = not exactly the Rafa Nadal beach sighting I was hoping for. Alana and Aileen met us at the hostel and I smothered them with hugs and we caught up on all the Marist talk for an hour or two before we went to hit the town to find dinner and ecstasy-free entertainment.
We walked for a very long time without finding many places that were actually open. Then to our right we noticed life size plaster models of dinosaurs and saw the bright lights of the Dino Park Mini-golf and Entertainment complex guiding us to what would become our home in Mallorca. We checked the events calendar and struck gold – Bee Gee’s tribute band performing tonight at 9. I LIVE for gratuitous displays of tastelessness such as this. All was not lost. Not wanting to be late, all 9 of us hurried back to the hostel for a little dinner and some pre Bee Gees cocktails (Pre Gees, if you will). When we finally arrived at this gala, we made up 9 of the 11 people there, not including the waiters. The Bee Gees Fever, as these 3 strapping Germans called themselves, wore white pants, purple tie dye silk shirts, and left jaunty accessories to individual choice (a fedora, John Lennon glasses, or a large pendant). And this extravaganza was not without special effects. Oh no no. Smoke machine, disco ball, multimedia video presentation of the Bee Gee’s in the background. They played all the hits. A few drunken middle aged ladies showed up at the end – it was clearly not their first time at the Dino Park Bee Gee’s Fever show. They were up out of their seats dancing and giving money to the tall, long haired Bee Gee (Andy Gibb?) and at one point even grabbed Alana and dragged her onto the dance floor. At the end, the Bee Gees took requests …. Hell, yes. Laura and I softly started chanting for Wonderwall and the Bee Gees instantly started in with it. I laughed so hard I nearly lost my bocadillo. They had to stop midway through because they didn’t know the words, but damn it they gave it all they had. The waiters and staff clearly hated the Bee Gees and were sick of seeing their act every Saturday from 9 to 11, so they herded them off stage by closing all the blinds and threatening to turn off the lights. We got a picture with 2 of the 3 Bee Gees at the end. The 3rd had run to the dressing room and was unfortunately “sin pantalones.”
The next day I had to say good-bye to Aileen and Alana, but not before we fit in breakfast and a round of putt putt at Dino Park. Dino Park was clearly fabulous, but there was an interesting character at the hostel breakfast every day. Around 10 each morning a middle aged rather rotund man, complete with mustache would amble in and say “I’ll have a coffee, Alan” to the bartender and would sit at the computer for 3 hours chain smoking and scrolling through pictures of what appeared to be mail order brides. They were mostly young Asian women wearing ironic hats. SO creepy. We spent the day at the beach dozing in the sun and we spent the night talking and listening to bad pop songs on our improvised sound system (iPod headphones in a champagne flute). And that concludes our trip to Mallorca- not a culturally eye opening trip, but definitely a good break from our grueling travel schedule. I couldn’t be more thankful for Alana and Aileen. They are absolute melocotones and reminded me that I am coming home to a load of people who love me no matter what (and it’s mutual).
Oops – I forgot one lovely little tidbit of information. On the way back to Salamanca, we had to take the metro in between the Madrid airport and the train station. Fine. We’ve done that many a time and the Madrid metro is actually surprisingly pleasant. Well on that day the metro was a rough ride – very sudden stop and go – and it was crowded. So at one of the stops I lost my balance ( shocking) and managed this kind of Matrix-esque flamingo move- I kept one foot planted while the other one swung around and kicked some guy in the back of the knees. Having recovered my luggage, I squeaked out a “Sorry” and looked for the nearest hole that I could disappear into. The guy didn’t respond and said something to his friend that I couldn’t understand (listening to a German Bee Gees tribute band doesn’t bode well for language acquisition). I thought that was that and I was alone to process yet another awkward moment, but Madrid never lets you rest. At the next stop, the guy I kicked and his friend go to get off, and his friend (who was about 5’3, gelled hair, and tight white polo shirt) gets in my face, say “Sorry” in a high voice and gives me a swift swat on the arse. Listen, I know my Old Navy cargo pants are verrry irresistible and I commend your excellent taste in posteriors, but surely there was another way to deal with that situation? No one else really saw this little exchange and at the time I had absolutely no reaction. Looking back, I think it’s hilarious in a twisted way and I now have a litany of responses ready for any other Metro swatters.
As I am writing, my parents are landing in Spain and will be here for the next 10 days and seeing the sights (I had to insist that there were other things to see in Spain besides me). And I guess my dad must really like me since this trip involves a frightful combination of his two least favorite things: planes and water. I am very very excited to see them, but I will admit that I feel a little strange about having them in Salamanca. This place is the first place I have been truly independent. I was not anyone’s daughter or sister or previous student. Whatever life I have here is totally and completely mine and it will be interesting to try to include my parents in it for the next few days. They are very cool about it all and I’m sure will read this and know how I feel. But I need hugs and some unconditional love and my parents are just freakin’adorable. I am excited to share my experiences, my new home, and my new ideas with them and if it wasn’t for them, I definitely would not be here. We’d like to think that we arrive wherever we are all by our own bootstraps and in the more immediate past, that is usually true. I filled out the forms, got these grades, etc. But thinking back, all the prudent choices that my parents made before I even knew where Spain was are what allowed me to study abroad. What a cool thing to give your child, if that’s what they want. I hope that my kids will want this experience and that I will be able to help them get there. And by “there” I mean Dino Park.
PS If a swing dancer can make it to Salamanca within the week, he/she will be handsomely rewarded.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Oui Oui
As much as I was prepared not to (for some reason), I just had a fantastic weekend in Paris. It was filled with beautiful sights, I had a good group of people to travel with, and we had a bunch of little strange occurrences that seem to follow me around and give me inspiration for this [air quotes] blog. This was a planned trip with my study abroad program so the hotel and flight minutia were taken care of and since I am not very good with minutia- huzzah! All I had to do was pack my beret, save room for a baguette, and get on the plane. Paquita asked me before I left if I wanted 2 or 3 sandwiches- and when I say sandwiches I mean entire loaves of big crusty bread. I was left speechless – I have the option of getting 3 sandwiches???? My mind=blown. She packed me only 2 at my request but also included cheese, fruit, cookies, and a Spanish nougat dessert. This is what she packed me for a weekend in Paris, a capital of cuisine. If I go camping or something, she may have to call ahead to the bakery and the butcher, lest the entire Salamanca food industry shut down because of excess demand.
We took Ryan Air to Paris, which was my first experience with this purely functional budget airline. The plane interior looked normal enough and I was at ease until I saw the plane had what looked like large scorch marks all up the wing . Perfect. It all made sense when we looked at the in flight menu and the 6 euro Charburger they served was completely engulfed in flames. Ah clarity. The take off was less than perfect- Lulu spent the whole time buried in Helen’s shoulder. We had a small diversion from our impending fiery doom with the Pulitzer Prize winning Ryan Air magazine, which included a “flight attendant of the month” page. Rock chick Daniella from the Island of Malta told us that “she is a free spirit who enjoys travelling and kickboxing in her spare time – no wonder she looks so good out of uniform!” Then we spent the rest of the flight deciphering the menu ( any idea what a breakfast bap is?) and trying to decide if we were going to order the 2 for 1 shots from the Ryan Air skybar ( read: alcohol that comes in ketchup packets). We landed bumpily at the Beauveux airport which is about an hour outside of Paris and in the middle of a very classic French countryside.
After a scenic bus ride, we arrived at our hotel in the northern part of Paris, which is in between Paris’s two red light districts. When one girl asked the guy at the desk for a restaurant recommendation, he responded “Do you like indian food? Because you’re in Bangladesh.” Okay then. Lulu, Emily A. L Stew, Ingrid, Helen, RoRo, and I settled in and then took the Metro to the Champs Elysses. We hopped on the 2 train, with which we would be very well acquainted with, and we all exhaustedly grabbed a subway pole to support ourselves. We had been travelling for nearly 12 hours so we were all pretty out of it. All of us except Helen, who luckily realized that we had mindlessly created a little circle around a very large and sketchy piece of unattended luggage. On closer inspection, Helen noticed that the bag had wires and electrical tape on it. She had enough mental energy for this to register as “generally a bad sign” and she had us change cars. Phew. We made it to the Arc d’Triomphe and took a b-e-a-utiful stroll down the Champs and stopped for crepes to celebrate that we had all survived the day (it was looking iffy there for awhile).
The next morning all 30 API kids went down to the continental breakfast that was served in a rather small replica of a dungeon. After drowning myself in coffee and eating my obligatory ham, cheese, and croissant we all piled on another bus for a 3 hour tour of Paris. Our guide for the afternoon was a lovely man named Jaja, who told us ( in 3 languages none the less) a rather detailed account of all the deaths that had occurred on the Eiffel Tower (387) and lots of other sordid/morbid details of Paris’ history. The doom and gloom tour ended at Notre Dame, where we were finally let loose. The bus tour was helpful but I HATE buses. Hatehatehate. And I have enough trouble trying to take level and in focus pictures standing still on the ground, so a moving box of metal is bad news.
Luisa and Helen had been to Paris before so they were our tour guides. Thanks to them I really think we saw all we could see in Paris in 3 days. It is way too much to continue like this so I hope you will settle for my annotated outline that begins after being dropped off at Notre Dame by the grim reaper.
Notre Dame
Lunch – We found a cute café where we could get bocadillos no naturally we ordered 6 baguettes filled with ham and cheese- essentially what Paquita had packed me. A nice group of French people were about to sit down when one asked the other “Want to sit next to the Americans and their sandwiches?” The other Frenchman wittily answered “Why not?” Who says French- American relations are strained? If a group of 6 girls ravenously devouring large sandwiches and talking a little above the usual French murmur can be so amicably tolerated, there is surely hope for the future. The French were super nice the whole time. Seriously, don’t believe the hype.
Tomb of Napoleon- Pardon my French (Is this thing on?) but it was pretty badass. It’s in this huge complex that is filled with museums and just really cool old stuff (eloquent party of 1. Your table is ready- try the veal). Then you enter this huge cathedral with a gold dome that can be seen throughout the city. Check out my pics on Facebook but you enter in what is essentially a balcony that looks down on this huge tomb, which has five layers: tin, lead, lead, ebony, and marble. Napoleon designed it so that when you looked at his tomb, everyone would have to bow to him. Touché
Hanging out in front of the Louvre – a lake that had cymbals on stands in front of it so you could throw rocks and made some noise. Another lake surrounded by bizarre sculptures of faces- most of which resembled my infamous awkward face.
The Louvre – Could I possibly feel more in awe or insignificant? To see the Louvre is a full time job. Absolutely incredible. Go. Now. We were very tired and cranky and hungry, so I know we didn’t give the Louvre out best effort but we still saw some pretty great highlights.
Dinner - We, as a group, have a problem when it comes to picking a restaurant. Lots of different preferences + low blood sugar = no one’s having a good time. After many failed attempts, including a pursuit of a Pizza Hut, we settled on a very cute bistro with some of the best veggie quiche I have ever had.
Brief conversation in our room about how Spain is making us fat. More or less I’ve got that situation under control and I can be uptight about a 1 or 2 pound difference when I am in the US. Right now, I’m busy living and enjoying, and most days, we’re all still pretty cute. I also have a feeling that once the chorizo, whole milk, and entire loaves of bread leave my life, I will lose those 1 or 2 pounds rather quickly.
Heinekens and cookies bought from a friendly market in Bangladesh. Enjoyed in our hotel, accompanied by some French MTV.
Day 2
Guided tour of Musee D’Orsay with API – I was much more excited for this museum –manageable size and some incredibly influential pieces of art. By hanging towards the back of our large group, we avoided a tour with Jaja and instead had a really adorable French lady who always said Manet instead of Monet and vice versa and stomped her foot when she realized her mistake. We saw Olympia, Luncheon on the Grass, lots of Van Gogh, Renoir, Toulouse Letrec, Monet, Manet, and Degas (pretty much fainted). Just great. And I was wearing my Star Wars T- shirt.
Rodin Gardens – For only 1 euro you can see the Thinker and the Gates of Hell in an absolutely beautiful garden. It had rained that day so everything was wet, fragrant, and heavy; it made the most peaceful setting for all these sculptures, which were eerily expressive and human. Surprisingly one of my favorite things that we did.
Saint Chapelle – Aunt Molly and Uncle Bob told me this was not to be missed and as usual, they were right. It tells the entire story of the Bible told in stained glass. It’s like sitting in a kaleidoscope.
Souvenir shopping- We did some classy shopping along the Seine and then veered off to get some serious tacky stuff. Bedazzled lighters, statues of tweety bird next to the Eiffel tower, postcards with dogs superimposed next to the Arc D’Triomp, etc etc
Gorgeous 1.5 mile walk along the Seine at night.
Top of the Eiffel Tower – I won’t waste words, just see my pictures.
Heinekens, cookies, and $1.95 wine from Asia Mart (they uncork your wine for free!) this time with the French version of wrestling, complete with plaid and mullets.
Day 3
Slept in a bit. One last breakfast in the dungeon.
Sacre Cour- Long steep climb to the top of the city in the Monmarte district where the artists used to live. But another great cathedral a great life conversation outside of it. Being in a church always brings to mind the essential questions of life, whether you are religious or not. It was a beautiful day and a beautiful place and it was a moment in which I felt very youthful. We all shared a little bit of the stuff we had figured out and the much bigger quantity of stuff that we hadn’t figured out. There was also this precious old man playing his violin on the steps. We gave him some coins and took a picture with him and he just smiled at us for 5 minutes straight. He was so incredibly happy, and why not? He was making beautiful music in front of a beautiful building with a bird’s eye view of one of the best cities in the world. What more do you need?
The Paris Flea Market – Outside is a typical urban scene- lots of little booths filled with knock- off items. Once you venture past that you enter a big outdoor mall filled with vintage clothing, furniture, books, records, sheet music, art, etc. A hidden gem that you should definitely check out if you visit.
Lunch at Paris Grill – The group split up and Helen, Lulu, L Stew, and I stumbled on this little restaurant that just seemed to be pumping out sandwiches, and being Americans we were enticed. The guy behind counter loved us and we ordered 4 huge kabob sandwiches complete with French fries and sodas. At the end, when we asked for the check, the man typed it into a calculator and just stuck it out for us to see $23.50. Best meal I had in Paris – we were deliriously satisfied. At one point, I said “The bread was baked in God’s eye socket.”
4 PM We leave Paris and we endure the most thorough security inspection of all time.
1 AM Back in Salamanca. Phew.
Paris was so wonderful – it really is filled with light and the people there are really always falling in love. Paris is a city that will make you soft and maybe that’s not so bad. I’m realizing on this trip how much I like cities and I think if I just find the right city in the US, I could be a very happy camper. I need the motion, the activity, the constant change but I wouldn’t mind some tranquility, friendliness, and green space. Oh well there is time. In other Salamanca news, Paquita told me she likes my hair just like it is and this made me very happy. She approves of my shower and sleep method. She’s also starting computer classes this week and is very, very excited about them. She never ceases to surprise me and I think she is an absolute genius. I love hearing her opinion on politics or religion; she has her head on very straight and understands how things work. She doesn’t give herself credit for being smart but she really really is. How am I going to live without her? It’s scary to think about this experience ending and not being able to speak in Spanish every day, or take a stroll to the Puente Romano or having my friends spread across the country. I have already changed so much and I am excited to see what I will discover about myself in the next 7 weeks, which are jam-packed with school and visits and travel. Then I have to find a way to fit all my new experiences into my old life or at least my old environment. I hope I come back confident, eloquent, fluent, inspired, peaceful, joyful, grateful, patient, and full of light. But one thing at a time- right now all I am is ready to go watch music videos with Paquita.
We took Ryan Air to Paris, which was my first experience with this purely functional budget airline. The plane interior looked normal enough and I was at ease until I saw the plane had what looked like large scorch marks all up the wing . Perfect. It all made sense when we looked at the in flight menu and the 6 euro Charburger they served was completely engulfed in flames. Ah clarity. The take off was less than perfect- Lulu spent the whole time buried in Helen’s shoulder. We had a small diversion from our impending fiery doom with the Pulitzer Prize winning Ryan Air magazine, which included a “flight attendant of the month” page. Rock chick Daniella from the Island of Malta told us that “she is a free spirit who enjoys travelling and kickboxing in her spare time – no wonder she looks so good out of uniform!” Then we spent the rest of the flight deciphering the menu ( any idea what a breakfast bap is?) and trying to decide if we were going to order the 2 for 1 shots from the Ryan Air skybar ( read: alcohol that comes in ketchup packets). We landed bumpily at the Beauveux airport which is about an hour outside of Paris and in the middle of a very classic French countryside.
After a scenic bus ride, we arrived at our hotel in the northern part of Paris, which is in between Paris’s two red light districts. When one girl asked the guy at the desk for a restaurant recommendation, he responded “Do you like indian food? Because you’re in Bangladesh.” Okay then. Lulu, Emily A. L Stew, Ingrid, Helen, RoRo, and I settled in and then took the Metro to the Champs Elysses. We hopped on the 2 train, with which we would be very well acquainted with, and we all exhaustedly grabbed a subway pole to support ourselves. We had been travelling for nearly 12 hours so we were all pretty out of it. All of us except Helen, who luckily realized that we had mindlessly created a little circle around a very large and sketchy piece of unattended luggage. On closer inspection, Helen noticed that the bag had wires and electrical tape on it. She had enough mental energy for this to register as “generally a bad sign” and she had us change cars. Phew. We made it to the Arc d’Triomphe and took a b-e-a-utiful stroll down the Champs and stopped for crepes to celebrate that we had all survived the day (it was looking iffy there for awhile).
The next morning all 30 API kids went down to the continental breakfast that was served in a rather small replica of a dungeon. After drowning myself in coffee and eating my obligatory ham, cheese, and croissant we all piled on another bus for a 3 hour tour of Paris. Our guide for the afternoon was a lovely man named Jaja, who told us ( in 3 languages none the less) a rather detailed account of all the deaths that had occurred on the Eiffel Tower (387) and lots of other sordid/morbid details of Paris’ history. The doom and gloom tour ended at Notre Dame, where we were finally let loose. The bus tour was helpful but I HATE buses. Hatehatehate. And I have enough trouble trying to take level and in focus pictures standing still on the ground, so a moving box of metal is bad news.
Luisa and Helen had been to Paris before so they were our tour guides. Thanks to them I really think we saw all we could see in Paris in 3 days. It is way too much to continue like this so I hope you will settle for my annotated outline that begins after being dropped off at Notre Dame by the grim reaper.
Notre Dame
Lunch – We found a cute café where we could get bocadillos no naturally we ordered 6 baguettes filled with ham and cheese- essentially what Paquita had packed me. A nice group of French people were about to sit down when one asked the other “Want to sit next to the Americans and their sandwiches?” The other Frenchman wittily answered “Why not?” Who says French- American relations are strained? If a group of 6 girls ravenously devouring large sandwiches and talking a little above the usual French murmur can be so amicably tolerated, there is surely hope for the future. The French were super nice the whole time. Seriously, don’t believe the hype.
Tomb of Napoleon- Pardon my French (Is this thing on?) but it was pretty badass. It’s in this huge complex that is filled with museums and just really cool old stuff (eloquent party of 1. Your table is ready- try the veal). Then you enter this huge cathedral with a gold dome that can be seen throughout the city. Check out my pics on Facebook but you enter in what is essentially a balcony that looks down on this huge tomb, which has five layers: tin, lead, lead, ebony, and marble. Napoleon designed it so that when you looked at his tomb, everyone would have to bow to him. Touché
Hanging out in front of the Louvre – a lake that had cymbals on stands in front of it so you could throw rocks and made some noise. Another lake surrounded by bizarre sculptures of faces- most of which resembled my infamous awkward face.
The Louvre – Could I possibly feel more in awe or insignificant? To see the Louvre is a full time job. Absolutely incredible. Go. Now. We were very tired and cranky and hungry, so I know we didn’t give the Louvre out best effort but we still saw some pretty great highlights.
Dinner - We, as a group, have a problem when it comes to picking a restaurant. Lots of different preferences + low blood sugar = no one’s having a good time. After many failed attempts, including a pursuit of a Pizza Hut, we settled on a very cute bistro with some of the best veggie quiche I have ever had.
Brief conversation in our room about how Spain is making us fat. More or less I’ve got that situation under control and I can be uptight about a 1 or 2 pound difference when I am in the US. Right now, I’m busy living and enjoying, and most days, we’re all still pretty cute. I also have a feeling that once the chorizo, whole milk, and entire loaves of bread leave my life, I will lose those 1 or 2 pounds rather quickly.
Heinekens and cookies bought from a friendly market in Bangladesh. Enjoyed in our hotel, accompanied by some French MTV.
Day 2
Guided tour of Musee D’Orsay with API – I was much more excited for this museum –manageable size and some incredibly influential pieces of art. By hanging towards the back of our large group, we avoided a tour with Jaja and instead had a really adorable French lady who always said Manet instead of Monet and vice versa and stomped her foot when she realized her mistake. We saw Olympia, Luncheon on the Grass, lots of Van Gogh, Renoir, Toulouse Letrec, Monet, Manet, and Degas (pretty much fainted). Just great. And I was wearing my Star Wars T- shirt.
Rodin Gardens – For only 1 euro you can see the Thinker and the Gates of Hell in an absolutely beautiful garden. It had rained that day so everything was wet, fragrant, and heavy; it made the most peaceful setting for all these sculptures, which were eerily expressive and human. Surprisingly one of my favorite things that we did.
Saint Chapelle – Aunt Molly and Uncle Bob told me this was not to be missed and as usual, they were right. It tells the entire story of the Bible told in stained glass. It’s like sitting in a kaleidoscope.
Souvenir shopping- We did some classy shopping along the Seine and then veered off to get some serious tacky stuff. Bedazzled lighters, statues of tweety bird next to the Eiffel tower, postcards with dogs superimposed next to the Arc D’Triomp, etc etc
Gorgeous 1.5 mile walk along the Seine at night.
Top of the Eiffel Tower – I won’t waste words, just see my pictures.
Heinekens, cookies, and $1.95 wine from Asia Mart (they uncork your wine for free!) this time with the French version of wrestling, complete with plaid and mullets.
Day 3
Slept in a bit. One last breakfast in the dungeon.
Sacre Cour- Long steep climb to the top of the city in the Monmarte district where the artists used to live. But another great cathedral a great life conversation outside of it. Being in a church always brings to mind the essential questions of life, whether you are religious or not. It was a beautiful day and a beautiful place and it was a moment in which I felt very youthful. We all shared a little bit of the stuff we had figured out and the much bigger quantity of stuff that we hadn’t figured out. There was also this precious old man playing his violin on the steps. We gave him some coins and took a picture with him and he just smiled at us for 5 minutes straight. He was so incredibly happy, and why not? He was making beautiful music in front of a beautiful building with a bird’s eye view of one of the best cities in the world. What more do you need?
The Paris Flea Market – Outside is a typical urban scene- lots of little booths filled with knock- off items. Once you venture past that you enter a big outdoor mall filled with vintage clothing, furniture, books, records, sheet music, art, etc. A hidden gem that you should definitely check out if you visit.
Lunch at Paris Grill – The group split up and Helen, Lulu, L Stew, and I stumbled on this little restaurant that just seemed to be pumping out sandwiches, and being Americans we were enticed. The guy behind counter loved us and we ordered 4 huge kabob sandwiches complete with French fries and sodas. At the end, when we asked for the check, the man typed it into a calculator and just stuck it out for us to see $23.50. Best meal I had in Paris – we were deliriously satisfied. At one point, I said “The bread was baked in God’s eye socket.”
4 PM We leave Paris and we endure the most thorough security inspection of all time.
1 AM Back in Salamanca. Phew.
Paris was so wonderful – it really is filled with light and the people there are really always falling in love. Paris is a city that will make you soft and maybe that’s not so bad. I’m realizing on this trip how much I like cities and I think if I just find the right city in the US, I could be a very happy camper. I need the motion, the activity, the constant change but I wouldn’t mind some tranquility, friendliness, and green space. Oh well there is time. In other Salamanca news, Paquita told me she likes my hair just like it is and this made me very happy. She approves of my shower and sleep method. She’s also starting computer classes this week and is very, very excited about them. She never ceases to surprise me and I think she is an absolute genius. I love hearing her opinion on politics or religion; she has her head on very straight and understands how things work. She doesn’t give herself credit for being smart but she really really is. How am I going to live without her? It’s scary to think about this experience ending and not being able to speak in Spanish every day, or take a stroll to the Puente Romano or having my friends spread across the country. I have already changed so much and I am excited to see what I will discover about myself in the next 7 weeks, which are jam-packed with school and visits and travel. Then I have to find a way to fit all my new experiences into my old life or at least my old environment. I hope I come back confident, eloquent, fluent, inspired, peaceful, joyful, grateful, patient, and full of light. But one thing at a time- right now all I am is ready to go watch music videos with Paquita.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Loved you more than I did when you were mine...
[Enter Post Title Here]
Loved you more than I did when you were mine.
I cannot believe how many blog updates I had in September. I suppose when you just arrive inspiration hits you over the head with a baguette almost every day and you just have to express it someway or you will explode. You’re also not travelling as much and have more time to sit and ponder and absorb what’s happening to you. I have abandoned many a blog before – because frankly I ran out of things to say. But I am determined to maintain this one because 1) I think writing is healthy for me 2) It makes communications with friends much much easier 3)I couldn’t imagine a better souvenir for myself. So what I’m trying to say in way too many words ( I never really realized how long it took me to get to the point until I got here and could only tell Paquita my stories in Spanish, which is why I often find myself stumbling – because I cannot think of the roundabout vague words that I want fast enough) is I’m still here! I have just been in Barcelona for a bit with my absolutely wonderful Aunt and uncle and I had no contact with the outside world, which was actually equally wonderful.
Again I have a few possible notable events. I am going to write about my Barcelona weekend but when I can devote more attention to it and think of some relevant universal thing to tie to it. Because when I am old and think back on Spain, I know I will think of Barcelona – if I am not physically in Barcelona at the time.
I could write about how I fell on my face in my school building ( much like I do in James A Cann on a rainy day).
I could write about what I do/don’t want to do with my life ( isn’t having a blog satisfyingly narcissistic?)
I could write about how I have no idea what to say to the very attractive guy who sits next to me in music class every day.
I could write about how I miss my sister and/or my housemates ( I will always live with other people –it’s a basic need)
I could write about the JBs/John, or my ultimate vice or the incredibly geeky purchase I just made that will undoubtedly manifest itself in the pictures from Paris.
However, I think I have an event that is even more eventful than the events that I previously thought were eventful (Please don’t even lightly chuckle at that. Inexcusably terrible). It’s taken about 8 weeks for my muscles to un-clench, for my endocrine system to slow down from hyper speed, for me to stop taking myself so seriously, for my brain to stop jumping to the worst case scenario( if you feel sick, the last thing you should do is WebMD your symptoms). If you’ve read any of my blog you have seen at least a little of the process- a process in which a 20 year old bundle of nerves was slowly unraveled and loosed of all the things she had used to identify and validate herself.
The process is still in motion, and most likely ( dios willing), go on for a very long time. But, I stop myself at least once a week to look around and say
Damn, I am happy.
Not to say that this is necessarily anything new. I have been happy before ( or at least should have been) most times without really being aware of it or thinking that this was just a plateau until I was REALLY happy. I have finally accepted that happy is a state of being, not a state of euphoria. I used to think that everyone else was happy. I was chasing those moments of ecstasy – the moments that punctuate our daily life and that lots of people try to live in constantly. And when I focused on that elusively wonderful feeling and didn’t understand that they are wonderful because they are elusive, that’s where I developed this idea that I was unhappy.
The only way I can think to say it is happiness is where you live. There aren’t fireworks or parties or important jobs with big paychecks or really anything else besides you and the people you love the most. Happiness is boring in the best way possible. For me happiness is consistency. I am happy apart from the fact that I bit it h-core in front of all my classmates and that I am unable to think of anything witty and charming in Spanish to say to this mystery man. Sure I get flustered and insecure all the time but I can access that little disco ball of contentment and it eventually subsides.
Each time you smile,
It’ll only last a while
Life may be scary
But it’s only temporary.
Except for death and paying taxes,
Everything in life is only for now.
Paris and Barcelona updates to come. Mallorca this weekend
Also loving this song
Loved you more than I did when you were mine.
I cannot believe how many blog updates I had in September. I suppose when you just arrive inspiration hits you over the head with a baguette almost every day and you just have to express it someway or you will explode. You’re also not travelling as much and have more time to sit and ponder and absorb what’s happening to you. I have abandoned many a blog before – because frankly I ran out of things to say. But I am determined to maintain this one because 1) I think writing is healthy for me 2) It makes communications with friends much much easier 3)I couldn’t imagine a better souvenir for myself. So what I’m trying to say in way too many words ( I never really realized how long it took me to get to the point until I got here and could only tell Paquita my stories in Spanish, which is why I often find myself stumbling – because I cannot think of the roundabout vague words that I want fast enough) is I’m still here! I have just been in Barcelona for a bit with my absolutely wonderful Aunt and uncle and I had no contact with the outside world, which was actually equally wonderful.
Again I have a few possible notable events. I am going to write about my Barcelona weekend but when I can devote more attention to it and think of some relevant universal thing to tie to it. Because when I am old and think back on Spain, I know I will think of Barcelona – if I am not physically in Barcelona at the time.
I could write about how I fell on my face in my school building ( much like I do in James A Cann on a rainy day).
I could write about what I do/don’t want to do with my life ( isn’t having a blog satisfyingly narcissistic?)
I could write about how I have no idea what to say to the very attractive guy who sits next to me in music class every day.
I could write about how I miss my sister and/or my housemates ( I will always live with other people –it’s a basic need)
I could write about the JBs/John, or my ultimate vice or the incredibly geeky purchase I just made that will undoubtedly manifest itself in the pictures from Paris.
However, I think I have an event that is even more eventful than the events that I previously thought were eventful (Please don’t even lightly chuckle at that. Inexcusably terrible). It’s taken about 8 weeks for my muscles to un-clench, for my endocrine system to slow down from hyper speed, for me to stop taking myself so seriously, for my brain to stop jumping to the worst case scenario( if you feel sick, the last thing you should do is WebMD your symptoms). If you’ve read any of my blog you have seen at least a little of the process- a process in which a 20 year old bundle of nerves was slowly unraveled and loosed of all the things she had used to identify and validate herself.
The process is still in motion, and most likely ( dios willing), go on for a very long time. But, I stop myself at least once a week to look around and say
Damn, I am happy.
Not to say that this is necessarily anything new. I have been happy before ( or at least should have been) most times without really being aware of it or thinking that this was just a plateau until I was REALLY happy. I have finally accepted that happy is a state of being, not a state of euphoria. I used to think that everyone else was happy. I was chasing those moments of ecstasy – the moments that punctuate our daily life and that lots of people try to live in constantly. And when I focused on that elusively wonderful feeling and didn’t understand that they are wonderful because they are elusive, that’s where I developed this idea that I was unhappy.
The only way I can think to say it is happiness is where you live. There aren’t fireworks or parties or important jobs with big paychecks or really anything else besides you and the people you love the most. Happiness is boring in the best way possible. For me happiness is consistency. I am happy apart from the fact that I bit it h-core in front of all my classmates and that I am unable to think of anything witty and charming in Spanish to say to this mystery man. Sure I get flustered and insecure all the time but I can access that little disco ball of contentment and it eventually subsides.
Each time you smile,
It’ll only last a while
Life may be scary
But it’s only temporary.
Except for death and paying taxes,
Everything in life is only for now.
Paris and Barcelona updates to come. Mallorca this weekend
Also loving this song
Monday, October 12, 2009
Whatever happened to predictability...
You know when things are going perfectly? Walking on sunshine? Kickin’down the cobblestone? You feel great, the world loves you, you love the world. Doors open for you. Strangers smile. The elevator is always waiting for you. You only trip once a day. Everything is dandy. Yeah I only let myself feel that way for about 24 hours give or take, when I decide I have made too many good decisions in a row and that I need to do something to send my self esteem and sense of security on a one way train to Serbia. I was having a fantastic week and it was absolutely overwhelming for me and my neurotic nature. What do you mean I have nothing to worry about? If I can’t gripe, complain, and panic, my lymph nodes start convulsing and something short circuits and I make less than stellar choices. I was feeling like an independent woman of the world – capable of anything within my reach. Clearly, I could not stand for this – something needed to change. I did nothing terrible or even out of the ordinary – to put it simply – I was not my best self. I am 20 years old and still very much in the making mistakes phase of my life, but I can’t seem to accept that either. The last two days I’ve just been down and feeling unworthy of all the opportunities I have. I’ve wanted to put my tail between my legs and go back to Poughkeepsie where everything is easy and I can rationalize away all my faults.
I’ve said it before but I have met absolutely PHENOMENAL people here. I am a firm believer that you should always have friends that challenge you and remind you that you have a lot more work to do in the personal development department. My friends here are all smarter, wiser,kinder, and funnier than I am and have embraced the full, flawed version of me (something I have yet to do). One of the girls in my group, Laura, is from Boston and we share a dry, East coast sense of humor and a lack of shame. She has been looking forward for her family to visit for weeks and would tell us a new little story about them every day( Al Gore garbage cans, love of jazz, eggs and potatoes,etc), so we could get a little picture of what we were in for.
Nothing really could have prepared us for the Stewart’s descent on Salamanca. They arrived on Friday and the group of API girls met up with them on Saturday in the Plaza for some sightseeing and food. We were met with 4 very happy, welcoming New England faces (thank god more east coasters!) – Mr & Mrs Stewart, her uncle who was lovingly dubbed Tio Ponce Miguel, and her brother Robert aka Dr Pizza, who was a surprise addition to the visit.
We all spent the first afternoon wandering through the Cathedral together. Mr Stewart snapped away with his new camera, Uncle Ponce chatted with the locals, Mrs. Stewart teared up a few times and rocked a euro-chic scarf, and Dr Pizza helped us quote the Unforgivable video. It was so nice to be around people who were excited to be here – I wouldn’t say we are jaded but sometimes it’s easy to forget that we are living in one of the most beautiful cities in the world and that Christopher Columbus lectured at our school . I do my homework in front of a renaissance cathedral- to which most days I say, eh the wireless sucks here. The Stewart’s filled every moment with wonder and gratitude and shared that with all of us. They were more and more thrilled with each thing we showed them and every bite of jamon iberico was more delicious than the last. And as the afternoon went on, we all became prouder and prouder of Salamanca. We said good night to the Stewarts and let them enjoy some family time.
The next day, after siesta and life chats with Paquita ( we are taking yoga classes together starting next week – I know, we’re precious) I headed back to that haggard, old renaissance cathedral to get me some internet. I was almost at the Plaza when I ran into the whole Stew clan in search of their next Spanish adventure. This was around 430 - one thing led to another and I ended up barhopping with them until 930. Laura took them to some Salamanca standards but they also found a ton of new places on their own and charmed all the Spaniards with their sheer adorable-ness.
I . Had. The. Best. Time. They totally got me out of my funk of self loathing. Families are just bursting with unconditional love, which is something you’re not always conscious of until you’re 3000 miles away in a new city where you know no one. It was so sweet to see how much Laura’s family missed her, how proud they were that she has this new experience, and how thankful they were that we were there to share it with her. We all needed to be around a family – something normal and familiar and the Stewarts were a perfect boost for all of us. They were so generous and genuinely interested in each of us and our lives and what we were doing. By the end of the night, we were all invited to her house, Mr Stewart and I had fist-bumped at least 5 times, and Dr. Pizza was calling me eM-dAwG ( spelling and capitalization implied). I don’t remember ever having such an absolutely care-free afternoon.
The Stewarts definitely made me miss my own family, who I’m sure will be just as thrilled and overwhelmed with everything. When my parents land in Europe armed with Life as Good/Colombia gear, Tevas, and broken Spanish, some laughs are bound to occur (as soon as I mop them both off the floor). Seeing Laura and Dr. Pizza hanging out made me miss my sister a ton too. I won’t get to see her until December 23rd which is absolutely the longest time we have been apart EVER – barring that 9 month period of time when she was not too accessible to me. It’s getting to the point with my family where the roles are a little less strict and we’re more just a group of like -minded people who just happened to have spent the last 20ish years together. My mom and dad aren’t visiting until November but I will be meeting my Aunt Molly and Uncle Bob in Barcelona on Thursday, so I will get a family fix sooner rather than later. They have taken care of EVERYTHING and are some of the most experienced travelers I know, so it will probably be a weekend that Rick Steves himself would envy.
The Stew fam also reminded me of how many things America does right. So many people come back from study abroad with this pretentious idea that everything in Europe was just so different and so much better and they can barely stand this American bourgeois existence. But watching the Stewarts and Spain fall in love, I realized that most Americans are nice and generous and ready to learn and ready to have fun. Yeah we might not always be dressed in stiletto boots and a scowl and we might not have ancient relics just lying around ( I commented in Portugal that we had now probably used toilets older than America) but we will smile, give you a tip, ask you about your kids, say thank you 19 times over, and most times we really wanna learn about whatever we can and immerse ourselves in the experiences of others. So if you are reading Stewarts- thanks for letting us tag along with you this weekend!
I’ve said it before but I have met absolutely PHENOMENAL people here. I am a firm believer that you should always have friends that challenge you and remind you that you have a lot more work to do in the personal development department. My friends here are all smarter, wiser,kinder, and funnier than I am and have embraced the full, flawed version of me (something I have yet to do). One of the girls in my group, Laura, is from Boston and we share a dry, East coast sense of humor and a lack of shame. She has been looking forward for her family to visit for weeks and would tell us a new little story about them every day( Al Gore garbage cans, love of jazz, eggs and potatoes,etc), so we could get a little picture of what we were in for.
Nothing really could have prepared us for the Stewart’s descent on Salamanca. They arrived on Friday and the group of API girls met up with them on Saturday in the Plaza for some sightseeing and food. We were met with 4 very happy, welcoming New England faces (thank god more east coasters!) – Mr & Mrs Stewart, her uncle who was lovingly dubbed Tio Ponce Miguel, and her brother Robert aka Dr Pizza, who was a surprise addition to the visit.
We all spent the first afternoon wandering through the Cathedral together. Mr Stewart snapped away with his new camera, Uncle Ponce chatted with the locals, Mrs. Stewart teared up a few times and rocked a euro-chic scarf, and Dr Pizza helped us quote the Unforgivable video. It was so nice to be around people who were excited to be here – I wouldn’t say we are jaded but sometimes it’s easy to forget that we are living in one of the most beautiful cities in the world and that Christopher Columbus lectured at our school . I do my homework in front of a renaissance cathedral- to which most days I say, eh the wireless sucks here. The Stewart’s filled every moment with wonder and gratitude and shared that with all of us. They were more and more thrilled with each thing we showed them and every bite of jamon iberico was more delicious than the last. And as the afternoon went on, we all became prouder and prouder of Salamanca. We said good night to the Stewarts and let them enjoy some family time.
The next day, after siesta and life chats with Paquita ( we are taking yoga classes together starting next week – I know, we’re precious) I headed back to that haggard, old renaissance cathedral to get me some internet. I was almost at the Plaza when I ran into the whole Stew clan in search of their next Spanish adventure. This was around 430 - one thing led to another and I ended up barhopping with them until 930. Laura took them to some Salamanca standards but they also found a ton of new places on their own and charmed all the Spaniards with their sheer adorable-ness.
I . Had. The. Best. Time. They totally got me out of my funk of self loathing. Families are just bursting with unconditional love, which is something you’re not always conscious of until you’re 3000 miles away in a new city where you know no one. It was so sweet to see how much Laura’s family missed her, how proud they were that she has this new experience, and how thankful they were that we were there to share it with her. We all needed to be around a family – something normal and familiar and the Stewarts were a perfect boost for all of us. They were so generous and genuinely interested in each of us and our lives and what we were doing. By the end of the night, we were all invited to her house, Mr Stewart and I had fist-bumped at least 5 times, and Dr. Pizza was calling me eM-dAwG ( spelling and capitalization implied). I don’t remember ever having such an absolutely care-free afternoon.
The Stewarts definitely made me miss my own family, who I’m sure will be just as thrilled and overwhelmed with everything. When my parents land in Europe armed with Life as Good/Colombia gear, Tevas, and broken Spanish, some laughs are bound to occur (as soon as I mop them both off the floor). Seeing Laura and Dr. Pizza hanging out made me miss my sister a ton too. I won’t get to see her until December 23rd which is absolutely the longest time we have been apart EVER – barring that 9 month period of time when she was not too accessible to me. It’s getting to the point with my family where the roles are a little less strict and we’re more just a group of like -minded people who just happened to have spent the last 20ish years together. My mom and dad aren’t visiting until November but I will be meeting my Aunt Molly and Uncle Bob in Barcelona on Thursday, so I will get a family fix sooner rather than later. They have taken care of EVERYTHING and are some of the most experienced travelers I know, so it will probably be a weekend that Rick Steves himself would envy.
The Stew fam also reminded me of how many things America does right. So many people come back from study abroad with this pretentious idea that everything in Europe was just so different and so much better and they can barely stand this American bourgeois existence. But watching the Stewarts and Spain fall in love, I realized that most Americans are nice and generous and ready to learn and ready to have fun. Yeah we might not always be dressed in stiletto boots and a scowl and we might not have ancient relics just lying around ( I commented in Portugal that we had now probably used toilets older than America) but we will smile, give you a tip, ask you about your kids, say thank you 19 times over, and most times we really wanna learn about whatever we can and immerse ourselves in the experiences of others. So if you are reading Stewarts- thanks for letting us tag along with you this weekend!
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Girl Power
The more people I meet, the more I am convinced that there are two types of girls: those who have decided they will navigate this world using their looks and those who have chosen to get by with their abilities. The two don’t have to be mutually exclusive – there are certain people who have managed a balance, but the majority of us have made a choice as to what we will favor. That doesn’t mean that pretty girls aren’t smart or talented or that smart and talented girls aren’t pretty. But different girls value different things and this is where the divide begins.
The choice begins when we are kids and I think our parents have a large role in this –I know mine have. My parents have never rewarded me for being cute (my grandparents are a different story). I got positive reinforcement when I was nice to my sister, when I got good grades, when I practiced my flute, etc. Even now, I’m sure they think Julie and I are the most beautiful girls in the world (bless their hearts) but for all intents and purposes, that’s pretty irrelevant. They like us because we are smart and funny and passionate and that’s one of the most secure feelings in the world. My parents never worried too much about what we wore and more concerned with us forming our own opinions. I rocked stirrup leggings, large floral prints, and light up sneakers like a pro and Julie walked out of the house in all sorts of ensembles, with looks ranging from mendicant orphan to Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz. Clothes were details that had to be dealt with before we got to the good stuff – playing in the tree house, going out to play with Michael and Lauren, rollerblading.
If things proceed like this at home, there is no reason for a kid to change their strategy during elementary school. The more stuff you do well, the more respect and attention will get. Simple. All though elementary school (and high school) I clung to what I could do, whether that was identifying a brontosaurus, naming the home planets of all the Star Wars characters, telling 101 hamburger jokes, or playing soccer at recess. I made friends briefly with the power crew – the girls with the lip-gloss and the boyfriends and the Spice Girls cds. But I was miserable because I didn’t know how to operate in their looks and power driven world (seriously you would not believe the politics of 6th grade clique). The fate of the world seemed to hang on what was appropriate attire for the next dance. I am definitely not saying I was or am above that world. There was/is still an aura of power and allure around that kind of life and the doors that seem to open for people like that. But alas, the power crew thought I was weird, and my family didn’t really like me when I was hanging out with them. And by all definitions, I was just a regular looking kid. I had long brown hair, my teeth were a little askew, and I was kinda floppy and awkward ( but in my own zany way very adorable) –I couldn’t give a sad ,whimpering face and have the world at my feet. Or maybe I chose not to try. If I liked someone I helped them with their homework or tried to get them out in dodge ball – the only way I knew how to get anyone’s attention.
High school continued much the same way. I found a haven in my incredibly supportive friends, in the Spanish department, and the band. The braces, the pimples, glasses, and frizzy hair that puberty had so generously given me gave me a base for a self depreciating sense of humor, which has served me well as far as meeting people and making friends. Now that I am in college, I have hopefully erased some of my pubescent “glow,” but I have never known what it feels like to be the “hot girl” or even what I would need to do to be one. And I finally have loosed myself of the necessity to be that girl and allowed myself to be whatever girl I feel like being that day. My hair usually looks wild and my outfits don’t always coordinate perfectly, but to me that is a reassuring feeling. It means that I have lots of other more important people and things in my life that I need to worry about. I can’t do it all and some days, my appearance suffers. Hats off to you if you can bake a pie for the homeless while deep conditioning your hair – but I can’t multitask like that. My little cousin Lily always reminds me to take it easy and do whatever you feel like. She’s got a long shock of dark hair, loves the Indiana Jones movies and the band Journey, and showed up one Christmas Eve dressed like a unicorn. I am healthy and most days I think I’m pretty fly and Lily helps me remember that that’s all I can ask for.
So what am I getting at? Here in Spain I have been lucky to find lots of great friends- girls who are beautiful but are too busy learning about the world to let that fact take up too much mental space. I like them and they like me because we share a life philosophy. I’d like to think the majority of girls make the decision to care about their inner selves and the world outside of the mall at some point in their lives, but when that occurs varies greatly. But like always, there are many girls here (and at home) that have made the choice not to honor their intellect and concentrate on their tan lines. Now, at this age and in this environment, it sometimes seems like these girls get all the attention, and sometimes they do. And sometimes that feels pretty crappy when you are on the other end of it. Even the smart girls spend way too much time feeling insecure, trying to figure out what they are doing wrong, and wondering when someone will notice them. What I hope happens, is that when one group of girls realizes that their looks will fade, that there is cellulite on their thighs, that there are wrinkles on their neck, and their designer jeans are a little tight on the butt, that the other group of girls will be too busy laughing, creating, helping, hugging, giving, thinking, living, traveling, and contributing to care. But what I also hope is that all girls realize that they are important whether Joe Blow with the backwards Hollister visor and red convertible and the rippling biceps that he gets from pumping iron with the bros decides to care. Oh, and note to Joe Blow: when In doubt, go for the girl wearing her glasses with her hair in a ponytail studying every week in the library, or the girl who asks you how your test went or remembers your housemates’ names or quotes every line of this week’s episode “ The Office” with you – she’s hotter than you think. No, really. Those unicorn costumes have terrible ventilation.
The choice begins when we are kids and I think our parents have a large role in this –I know mine have. My parents have never rewarded me for being cute (my grandparents are a different story). I got positive reinforcement when I was nice to my sister, when I got good grades, when I practiced my flute, etc. Even now, I’m sure they think Julie and I are the most beautiful girls in the world (bless their hearts) but for all intents and purposes, that’s pretty irrelevant. They like us because we are smart and funny and passionate and that’s one of the most secure feelings in the world. My parents never worried too much about what we wore and more concerned with us forming our own opinions. I rocked stirrup leggings, large floral prints, and light up sneakers like a pro and Julie walked out of the house in all sorts of ensembles, with looks ranging from mendicant orphan to Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz. Clothes were details that had to be dealt with before we got to the good stuff – playing in the tree house, going out to play with Michael and Lauren, rollerblading.
If things proceed like this at home, there is no reason for a kid to change their strategy during elementary school. The more stuff you do well, the more respect and attention will get. Simple. All though elementary school (and high school) I clung to what I could do, whether that was identifying a brontosaurus, naming the home planets of all the Star Wars characters, telling 101 hamburger jokes, or playing soccer at recess. I made friends briefly with the power crew – the girls with the lip-gloss and the boyfriends and the Spice Girls cds. But I was miserable because I didn’t know how to operate in their looks and power driven world (seriously you would not believe the politics of 6th grade clique). The fate of the world seemed to hang on what was appropriate attire for the next dance. I am definitely not saying I was or am above that world. There was/is still an aura of power and allure around that kind of life and the doors that seem to open for people like that. But alas, the power crew thought I was weird, and my family didn’t really like me when I was hanging out with them. And by all definitions, I was just a regular looking kid. I had long brown hair, my teeth were a little askew, and I was kinda floppy and awkward ( but in my own zany way very adorable) –I couldn’t give a sad ,whimpering face and have the world at my feet. Or maybe I chose not to try. If I liked someone I helped them with their homework or tried to get them out in dodge ball – the only way I knew how to get anyone’s attention.
High school continued much the same way. I found a haven in my incredibly supportive friends, in the Spanish department, and the band. The braces, the pimples, glasses, and frizzy hair that puberty had so generously given me gave me a base for a self depreciating sense of humor, which has served me well as far as meeting people and making friends. Now that I am in college, I have hopefully erased some of my pubescent “glow,” but I have never known what it feels like to be the “hot girl” or even what I would need to do to be one. And I finally have loosed myself of the necessity to be that girl and allowed myself to be whatever girl I feel like being that day. My hair usually looks wild and my outfits don’t always coordinate perfectly, but to me that is a reassuring feeling. It means that I have lots of other more important people and things in my life that I need to worry about. I can’t do it all and some days, my appearance suffers. Hats off to you if you can bake a pie for the homeless while deep conditioning your hair – but I can’t multitask like that. My little cousin Lily always reminds me to take it easy and do whatever you feel like. She’s got a long shock of dark hair, loves the Indiana Jones movies and the band Journey, and showed up one Christmas Eve dressed like a unicorn. I am healthy and most days I think I’m pretty fly and Lily helps me remember that that’s all I can ask for.
So what am I getting at? Here in Spain I have been lucky to find lots of great friends- girls who are beautiful but are too busy learning about the world to let that fact take up too much mental space. I like them and they like me because we share a life philosophy. I’d like to think the majority of girls make the decision to care about their inner selves and the world outside of the mall at some point in their lives, but when that occurs varies greatly. But like always, there are many girls here (and at home) that have made the choice not to honor their intellect and concentrate on their tan lines. Now, at this age and in this environment, it sometimes seems like these girls get all the attention, and sometimes they do. And sometimes that feels pretty crappy when you are on the other end of it. Even the smart girls spend way too much time feeling insecure, trying to figure out what they are doing wrong, and wondering when someone will notice them. What I hope happens, is that when one group of girls realizes that their looks will fade, that there is cellulite on their thighs, that there are wrinkles on their neck, and their designer jeans are a little tight on the butt, that the other group of girls will be too busy laughing, creating, helping, hugging, giving, thinking, living, traveling, and contributing to care. But what I also hope is that all girls realize that they are important whether Joe Blow with the backwards Hollister visor and red convertible and the rippling biceps that he gets from pumping iron with the bros decides to care. Oh, and note to Joe Blow: when In doubt, go for the girl wearing her glasses with her hair in a ponytail studying every week in the library, or the girl who asks you how your test went or remembers your housemates’ names or quotes every line of this week’s episode “ The Office” with you – she’s hotter than you think. No, really. Those unicorn costumes have terrible ventilation.
Friday, October 2, 2009
Porto!
Hi all - I am writing from the beautiful sky hostel in Porto, Portugal and feeling a whole lot better than I have in recent posts. Getting away for a little bit is always a great boost and Porto is sososososo cool. As soon as we stepped off the bus, my mind was already racing, trying to figure out ways that I could stay here longer. As a city, it is about twice the size of Salamanca but there are trees, the river Douro, and the Atlantic Ocean - I missed my East Coast trees and water. There are beautiful cathedrals on every block and in general the people have been incredibly nice. We had a delicious dinner on the river last night and visited the big cathedral, the cloisters, and the Sandeman winery this morning and are hoping to do even more this afternoon-maybe a museum, definitely visiting all the turn of the century coffee shops we can.
This is the first time I have ever been in a country in which I don't speak the language and it is the oddest sensation. I can understand Portuguese sometimes but I only know how to say the most basic phrases. I used to think that Portuguese had almost everything in common with Spanish but it sounds a lot more like French, and English seems to be the secondary language here. EVERYONE speaks English and they correct you if you say something in Spanish by saying, " I am Portuguese, not Spanish." Whoops. I guess I can't blame them. Portugal has definitely gotten the short end of the stick as far as Iberian notoriety and as a people, they are deservedly proud of their very distinctive culture. I don't really like not being able to chat away with strangers(gives me new perspective on my ESL students and how they must feel) so I have decided to take some decisive action. These are my options:
1) Only go to Spanish and English speaking countries
2) Learn every language ever and travel everywhere I can.
I would be perfectly happy with option #1 but doesn't option number 2 sound so much better? Now all I need to do is to find some sponsorship and someone to come with me....
We did have a super hyped up language/international experience last night, though. We were walking back from dinner looking for a place to buy bottled water and some ice cream and we were very VERY tired ( Porto is uphill both ways, I swear). I guess we lingered too long outside of once convenience store and an incredibly friendly man popped out and said to us in French/Portuguese - This is my house, full of my family and friends,it is modest, but very good - Come in! Not able to refuse such an enthusiastic invitation we all cautiously filed into this tiny little store. Literally his entire family was sitting in the store watching TV( complete with adorable child in footie pajamas). I was somehow in the front of the group so I got some serious interaction with this dude.
Him: Where are you from?
Me: Estados Unidos. America
Him: AHHH OBAMA!
Me: Si si me gusta mucho!
He then passed me over to his friend who spoke a little english. From what I understood, all of them were from Angola and had moved here. He recommended that we go check out the riverfront and then asked me what I wanted. I began asking in my frantic New York english that I wanted a bottle of water. He asked me to slow down. I tried again. Still totally butchered it- now I'm starting to feel like a jerk. Finally he says/ you speak spanish?
My mental reaction
YES YES YES I DO WOW YES I DEFINITELY SPEAK SPANISH YAY THIS IS SO EXCITING
What I actually said.
Si hablo espanol - Quisiera una botella de agua. Cuanto cuesta una grande?
Ohhhhh it was really cool. Super simple interaction but it was so instinctual - and it´s happening more and more now which is SO neat. Gender agreement is getting to be a reflex and Paquita and I are having a much easier time communicating at dinner. And the feeling of relief I had when I realized this man spoke Spanish has to count for something( I have another fun language moment for you when I wrap this one up).So we all paid and went on our merry way. And as we left the man called after us OBAMA! and put his fist in the air. I love that some random man in Portugal who is actually from Angola is that excited about our president- the dude I voted for. Anyway, simply buying a bottle of water was an experience that involved 4 languages and 3 continents. That kinda thing doesn`t happen in Poughkeepsie.
Alright, one final fun language learning story before I leave you for siesta ( I don´t care if I travel to Croatia - I will continue to siesta). If you have slept in the same room with me ( Julie, Ava, and Alana are some notable victims) you know that I have a habit of talking in my sleep.
Some memorable quotes
The metronome is chasing me!
Yeah I know! Power rangers, right?
Daddy, save me from the gymnastics!
All my habits are so incredibly embarrassing ( tripping is my other biggie). Anyway the other 5 girls and I are sharing a room in this hostel and I gave them fair warning that I might have a few things to say. So poor Roshanna has a cold and I think she may have been awake coughing when she heard me sleep talking IN SPANISH. I was just ordering food ( what else?) but I think that is definitely exciting enough to put in the ¨Made my day¨ category.
More from Porto soon.
Love,
Fio
PS Is it weird that I miss Salamanca?
This is the first time I have ever been in a country in which I don't speak the language and it is the oddest sensation. I can understand Portuguese sometimes but I only know how to say the most basic phrases. I used to think that Portuguese had almost everything in common with Spanish but it sounds a lot more like French, and English seems to be the secondary language here. EVERYONE speaks English and they correct you if you say something in Spanish by saying, " I am Portuguese, not Spanish." Whoops. I guess I can't blame them. Portugal has definitely gotten the short end of the stick as far as Iberian notoriety and as a people, they are deservedly proud of their very distinctive culture. I don't really like not being able to chat away with strangers(gives me new perspective on my ESL students and how they must feel) so I have decided to take some decisive action. These are my options:
1) Only go to Spanish and English speaking countries
2) Learn every language ever and travel everywhere I can.
I would be perfectly happy with option #1 but doesn't option number 2 sound so much better? Now all I need to do is to find some sponsorship and someone to come with me....
We did have a super hyped up language/international experience last night, though. We were walking back from dinner looking for a place to buy bottled water and some ice cream and we were very VERY tired ( Porto is uphill both ways, I swear). I guess we lingered too long outside of once convenience store and an incredibly friendly man popped out and said to us in French/Portuguese - This is my house, full of my family and friends,it is modest, but very good - Come in! Not able to refuse such an enthusiastic invitation we all cautiously filed into this tiny little store. Literally his entire family was sitting in the store watching TV( complete with adorable child in footie pajamas). I was somehow in the front of the group so I got some serious interaction with this dude.
Him: Where are you from?
Me: Estados Unidos. America
Him: AHHH OBAMA!
Me: Si si me gusta mucho!
He then passed me over to his friend who spoke a little english. From what I understood, all of them were from Angola and had moved here. He recommended that we go check out the riverfront and then asked me what I wanted. I began asking in my frantic New York english that I wanted a bottle of water. He asked me to slow down. I tried again. Still totally butchered it- now I'm starting to feel like a jerk. Finally he says/ you speak spanish?
My mental reaction
YES YES YES I DO WOW YES I DEFINITELY SPEAK SPANISH YAY THIS IS SO EXCITING
What I actually said.
Si hablo espanol - Quisiera una botella de agua. Cuanto cuesta una grande?
Ohhhhh it was really cool. Super simple interaction but it was so instinctual - and it´s happening more and more now which is SO neat. Gender agreement is getting to be a reflex and Paquita and I are having a much easier time communicating at dinner. And the feeling of relief I had when I realized this man spoke Spanish has to count for something( I have another fun language moment for you when I wrap this one up).So we all paid and went on our merry way. And as we left the man called after us OBAMA! and put his fist in the air. I love that some random man in Portugal who is actually from Angola is that excited about our president- the dude I voted for. Anyway, simply buying a bottle of water was an experience that involved 4 languages and 3 continents. That kinda thing doesn`t happen in Poughkeepsie.
Alright, one final fun language learning story before I leave you for siesta ( I don´t care if I travel to Croatia - I will continue to siesta). If you have slept in the same room with me ( Julie, Ava, and Alana are some notable victims) you know that I have a habit of talking in my sleep.
Some memorable quotes
The metronome is chasing me!
Yeah I know! Power rangers, right?
Daddy, save me from the gymnastics!
All my habits are so incredibly embarrassing ( tripping is my other biggie). Anyway the other 5 girls and I are sharing a room in this hostel and I gave them fair warning that I might have a few things to say. So poor Roshanna has a cold and I think she may have been awake coughing when she heard me sleep talking IN SPANISH. I was just ordering food ( what else?) but I think that is definitely exciting enough to put in the ¨Made my day¨ category.
More from Porto soon.
Love,
Fio
PS Is it weird that I miss Salamanca?
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