Random Anecdotes

I’m still adjusting to some cultural aspects of Spain. The two-kisses-on-the-cheek greeting still catches me off guard sometimes, and at times I think it would just be easier to give a general wave hello than to swap two “besitos” with everyone in the room. It does make it seem like you’re already buddy-buddy with everyone you meet though, which is a warm and fuzzy feeling. However, the other day I was meeting some friends for tapas, and accidentally went to the right first instead of the left for the kiss. I ended up pecking my friend on the mouth, and then she jokingly accused me of wanting to make out with her. Why couldn’t that little accident have happened with some very attractive Spanish man instead????

It’s become pretty cold here all of a sudden—definitely already as cold as it ever gets in Santa Barbara or at home, and it’s only October. This means I’ve had to suck it up and spend money on winter clothes instead of plane tickets. But it’s also a great excuse to go shopping, and I brought Anna along to help me invest in my first true winter coat, since she was born and raised in Massachusetts. Once I resigned to the fact that I would have to spend a small fortune being warm and fashionable in these next few months, the process became a lot more enjoyable—even addicting—and I wouldn’t be surprised if I come home to California with at least five new pairs of boots and coats (each).

I’ve been spending the past week writing my first essay for the university here. This whole process has been sort of painful. I’ve been translating articles and ideas back and forth between Spanish and English so many times that both languages have become muddled and, frankly, the current product sounds like it was written by a ten-year-old. It’s hard to form “critical opinions” about articles that you don’t fully understand in the first place. Also, this particular essay is about the origin of the Spanish language, which I don’t even have much of an opinion about in English. It blossomed out of Latin, some people were thrilled about it, and others not so much. There’s not much more to say about it. . . . Luckily Amalia agreed to look over my essay for me. Not only is she a native speaker, but she also majored in Translation. You have to strategically pick your friends when abroad. (Just kidding Amalia!! She reads this blog, because in addition to her other skills, she speaks fluent English).

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Yesterday I went to a Mexican Fiesta surprise birthday party for my friend Sydney. Anna offered to bring the Jose Cuervo, so we stopped at a convenience store on the way to the party. When we asked for two bottles, the owner sent his son to a different store to get it, since this store didn’t stock Jose (there is a suspicious lack of anything Mexican-related in Spain). The problem with this little scenario? The son was about 6 years old! He hopped on his little trainer bicycle and rode off with what looked like a little Spiderman lunchbox around his shoulder in order to hand-deliver two fifths of tequila!! Anna and I stared at each other in horror—were we contributing to child abuse??? Were we tainting this poor boy with alcoholism before he’s even lived a decade??? When he returned from the neighbor’s store with the goods, we made sure to shower him with thanks, even a little pat on the back, to try to reincorporate some good back into his night and hopefully erase what surely must have been a formative experience.

I'm off to Portugal for a long weekend! Spain has another holiday. I definitely chose the right country to study in. 

GOLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL!!!!

Today, while doing my usual walk to class, I suddenly noticed no cars were whizzing by me. Then people started walking in the streets, and after a few minutes I approached a big crowd with police. My first instinct was that there was a big student protest against, well, everything that's wrong with Spain right now--primarily education and unemployment. But then I saw a huge bus roll up, and I immediately thought, Obama!! Until I remembered I was in Spain, so I changed that to, "King Juan Carlos Primero!!!" This goes to show how relaxed (dumb) my thinking has become here, since the Royals can probably think of a classier mode of arrival than a tacky blue bus.
Anyway, everyone in the crowd had iPhones or video cameras out, so I stayed to see events unfold, even if it wasn't a president or a king. Turns out it was much better, at least in the eyes of the Spaniards....The bus doors opened and out walked the players of the FCBarcelona, Barcelona's fútbol team!! People were chanting and there was so much love in the air. If only I could feel as much for soccer as that tiny, 80+ year-old woman in the crowd, holding her groceries with one arm and cheering with the other.
Although I don't follow Spanish fútbol as much as I should (i.e. religiously), it was a very cool experience. Barcelona is one of the top two teams in Spain, and they came to play Granada today (hm, wonder which one will win??? Granada was only just bumped up into Barcelona and Madrid's league). But to be that close to celebraties is always a great feeling!!! And there is nothing better than celebratory Spaniards :)

My Cup of Tea

This week Spain celebrated one of its many holidays. My friend Anna and I capitalized on Columbus’ discovery of America by visiting the Mothership, England, and my friend Leif, who is studing at the University of Sussex in Brighton.

It is sort of a struggle to travel out of Granada. The closest reasonably priced airport is Malaga, two hours away by bus. After waiting an hour for the next ride, a group of Germans came up to us and desperately asked for help, since they could tell we speak English (I still haven’t mastered the Spanish appearance). This bus was all sold out, and they needed to be on it in order to catch their flight from Malaga. They offered us twenty euros each to buy our tickets, and asked us if we could converse in Spanish with other passengers since they needed one more ticket. In the end, we gladly gave up our tickets to help these poor travelers, and used our growing language skills to find them a third ticket. We stayed in Granada until the next bus with a warm fuzzy feeling in our hearts, and also justified many of our future English pub expenditures on the fact that we made 20 free euros. Who said Karma can’t be subsidized?

After staying a night in Malaga, I flew to Brighton and was greeted by the first real rain I’ve seen in several months. I’d forgotten what it felt like to be cold. I was also greeted by a lengthy interrogation at customs, as the lady seemed suspicious of my Spanish residency (my extended Visa has not gone through yet). I will say, however, that being harshly questioned is almost charming when done in a British accent.

Leif met me at the train station, and since Anna was on a later flight, we spent some time walking around Brighton, seeing his house, and eating at an Indian buffet. England was a big culture shock coming from Spain. I can’t count the number of times I almost got run over after looking the wrong way for cars. I also kept planning out Spanish phrases to use in interactions—such as buying tickets or ordering at restaurants—before I remembered that I could use English here. (I have to say, though, at times I can understand Spanish better than a thick British accent). When all the stores were still open at 2 pm I couldn’t believe it, since I’ve become so accustomed to siesta times. And although I’ve heard that England has notoriously bad food, I was in gastronomic heaven. I had forgotten how much I missed typical food from home like paninis, salads, bagels and Indian lunch buffets.

Gotta have the typical British telephone booth picture!

Brighton looks like San Francisco!

The next day Leif had class, so Anna and I set out on our own excursions. My dad studied for two years at Sussex, and told us of a small town to the east of Brighton called Lewes that is supposedly very charming. We caught a double-decker bus to Lewes, and sat behind the most adorable British couple who kept pointing out landmarks along the way. Riding on the second story of British buses is like getting a sight-seeing tours for free, especially when the locals point out everything from old prisons to soccer fields throughout the ride. 

        Lewes was like a fairytale. It was everything I had imagined England to be—views of rolling green hills with grazing sheep, old stone castles, tiny specialty shops with names like “Cheese Please” and “Wickle.” (What does Wickle even mean?? It might be a British term). There were homemade fudge shops on almost every corner, and the houses were adorable. Basically I’m moving to Lewes when I retire.

A sign outside a little bakery--we definitely followed its advice.

Anna at one of the many fudge shops.

      We had afternoon tea at Wickle. I’m not sure why America didn’t adopt England’s tea tradition, but we are missing out since it is quite frankly the classiest custom ever created.

 Afternoon Tea—ginger cake, cucumber and hummus sandwiches, and fairy cakes. Why call it a mini cupcake when you could call it a fairy cake? The Brits are so cute.

On Friday morning we took a train to London. Of course the first thing we did was search out Platform 9 ¾, which was sadly moved due to construction between Platforms 9 and 10. Luckily Hogwarts is still accessible from outside King’s Cross Station.

Finally going to my dream school.

Seeing as the most important part of the trip was therefore accomplished, we then took a leisurely tour through the city center. I had no concept of how big London was, and it was a shock coming from Granada, which I thought of as a city but, compared to London, is more like a rural village. I naively thought we could see all the sights on foot, getting in some good exercise along the way. Twenty minutes into that plan and barely a block further, we invested in some unlimited subway passes and didn’t regret it for a second.

These street signs are very helpful in London.

Because it seems like we did a billion things in two short days in London, here are the highlights:

 

Borough Outdoor Market under the London Bridge—Like Santa Barbara’s farmer’s market on crack. (I had an English pot pie for lunch! So quaint.)

Crossing the River Themes via an underground tunnel, from our hostel into Greenwich. 

Standing on the Meridian Line in Greenwich Park!

Taking a London Walking Tour on Saturday which covered Buckinham Palace, St. James’ Palace, 

Westminster Abbey, Big Ben and many more old and royal places.

Seeing the London Eye at night. 

The neighborhood of Notting Hill (since I recently watched the movie), and another outdoor market called Portabello Market.

Walking across the Tower Bridge.

A quick pass through some museums, so we didn’t appear too uncultured: the Victoria and Albert Museum, the National Gallery, the Natural History Museum (pictured above--and full of dinosaurs!) and the Science Museum. All the admissions were free—socialism is awesome.

And as a farewell treat, we finally ate burritos. The first burrito I’ve had since California. Monuments, museums, and British accents aside, the burrito made the trip worthwhile (as did the sign they hung up in the restaurant, see above). 

I loved my trip to England, and it even made me a bit homesick. It’s so similar (relatively) to the U.S. I really did forget small comforts like knowing what all the signs say, eating familiar food, and seeing parks. (Who knew that would be a comfort? There is a noticeable lack of grass in Spain). However, I was also excited to go back to what is quickly feeling like home, partly because of the absurd exchange rate of the British Pound, and also because I really do love Granada. Anna and I practically jumped a guy in our hostel who was speaking Spanish, simply to get a little taste of home. (Also a week in England set my Spanish skills back about a year--but it was worth it!!!)

Day to Day Life

Life is starting to fall into a general rhythm here, now that school and housing are taken care of. Everything in Spain moves a little slower, and I’ve never been so relaxed in my life. My weekend is longer than my school week, as I only have classes Monday through Wednesday. Technically I have a Tuesday/Thursday class, but half of the class is virtual so we only have to attend on Tuesdays. This works out perfectly for me, as I am trying to travel a lot.

My campus is a half-hour walk, and a large chunk of that is up a hill. Most people take the bus, but I am trying to be valiant and cheap at the same time, since I’d rather spend my euros on gelato than a bus ride (which, in the end, must cancel out the exercise). In any case, I show up essentially drenched in sweat for every class, which I’m sure has something to do with my next topic of conversation: difficulty in making friends in class.

I don’t know why I’m surprised that I haven’t really been meeting people in my classes. In my two years at Santa Barbara, I’ve probably only made less than a handful of friends from my actual courses. The definition of a lecture is generally a professor talking at his students, not students engaging each other socially while the professor takes a nap. Either way, I had big dreams about meeting so many long-lasting Spanish and international friends once school started, which so far isn’t the case.

The classes themselves are very mixed. On the one hand, I feel like someone is constantly pulling a prank on me. It’s hilarious to sit in a classroom and have someone talk at you for 2 hours in a foreign language. Every once in a while, the professors will clearly make a joke, and I awkwardly join in the other student’s laughter and realize that I need to quickly learn about 1,000 more words of this language. My Geolinguistics professor (don’t know what Geolinguistics is? I basically don’t either) talks so quickly and with the thickest Andalusian accent (read: he drops essentially every letter that matters) that I don’t even have time to think that a two-hour class seems long: my entire being is absorbed in translating. It is hard to get stressed out, though—in fact, it’s hard to get stressed out in this siesta-loving country in general. No matter how hard it is to understand, or how ridiculous it seems that I spend a nauseating amount of time reading one 16-page academic article, I just remind myself how cool it is that I’m actually surviving—and thriving—in a country whose language is entirely different. Not to mention a subset of that country that, many years ago, got a little lazy with proper pronunciation. (Although my linguistics professors would shun what I just said. Andalusia’s accent is “different,” not better and not worse. Although quite a lot worse if you’ve spent seven years studying Madrid or Mexico City Spanish, in my opinion). All said and done though, I really do understand a lot of what’s going on in the lectures, and I can feel my Spanish improving rapidly.

I’ve been treating friend-searching like a full-time job here. For one, I don’t live with Spaniards, so I need to find other ways to get advanced practice in. For another, there’s only so long you can justify living in Spain and hanging out solely with Californians. I’ve been spending a lot of time with the people I met at the beach house, and they are so nice and fun. Being social is conflicting with my bank account, however, and I forget that tapas are not actually “free,” since you have to buy the drink they come with. Oh well, I pretty much count on living it up for a year, draining my life savings, and returning to Santa Barbara a beggar.

The most famous tapas bar in Granada, Bodegas Castañeda. The one blonde amongst all the Spaniards is a sad giveaway that I'm a foreigner. (Ignore the crazy red-eye touchup, but that's what you get when the photo is taken with an iPhone. RIP Steve Jobs.)

Making lunch at my piso with Amalia and Anna!

Anna, Natcho, Paco and me having a "low-key" night for Spanish standards--drinks at a bar and home by 4:30.

Because I haven’t rambled enough in this blog entry yet, I’ll share one anecdote that I thought was especially hilarious. I was sitting next to a girl from Turkey in my Anthropology of Development class the first day. I asked her if she’d ever been to the U.S. and she said she’d been to Miami (that seems to be the city every one has been to if they visit the U.S.—not sure why). Then she got very excited and asked me, “Do you know Joe?” I asked, “Joe?” and she said, “Yes, I met someone named Joe while I was in Miami. Do you know him?” I really wasn’t sure at first if she was kidding. This was almost worse than when people ask me if I know Brad Pitt because I’m from California. Turns out she was completely sincere, and I had to apologize for not personally knowing all of the 300 million residents of my beloved nation. 

A Word about the Nightlife

There’s a chicken-or-egg conundrum going on in Spain, and I can’t figure out the answer. Do people party so much here to escape the reality of their major economic crisis, or is Spain in a major economic crisis because people do little else than party?

Last night, I went to tapas with some new Spanish friends (the ones I met at the beach house). After a few rounds, we walked to the one place in the city where it is legal to drink, called Botellódromo. Granted, it was the first Thursday after the Fall semester started, which means thousands of students have just moved back into the city and are seeing all their friends for the first time. But I never want to hear another word about how Santa Barbara students party a lot—University of Granada students leave us in the dust. Botellódromo is about the size of a large department store parking lot (actually it IS a large department store parking lot, converted into a dirty free-for-all), and students were crammed into it from all sides. The overflow from this place was spilling out into neighboring streets. The stores that stay open all night to cater to these student’s partying needs ran out of supplies. It’s like Santa Barbara Halloween, minus the slutty costumes and plus about twice as many people.

Although it can be overwhelming and incredibly dirty (there is a lot of irony about girls looking very classy in dresses and heels and then needing to use the “bathroom,” basically a dirt road that becomes more of a mud hole at the end of the night due to the vast quantity of pee), Botellódromo makes for a very inviting atmosphere. Botellódromo, and Granada in general, is like a massive melting pot of young adults who are all so eager to meet fellow students, foreigners and lifelong friends (and drinking buddies!). It’s less about partying for the alcohol (like in the U.S.), and more about spending all night meeting new people and conversing (or trying to) in a different language. It’s always a plus that anything we do here, even partying, can always carry the excuse of “practicing our Spanish.”

At 5:45 a.m. we left Botellódromo for the discoteca Mae West (most Spaniards’ favorite discoteca in the city, known for being more trendy and upscale). Wearing heels is generally a must at Mae West (and for most late-night bar or discoteca scenes, actually), and Spanish girls seem to walk around in 6-inch heels effortlessly. Needless to say, my American friend Anna and I were on the verge of tears the whole night, and I think I’ve permanently crushed about 20 different bones in my feet.

Our night at the discoteca started at 6 a.m. This is simply absurd, but así es la vida. I should add that this is actually late by Spanish standards as well, but Mae West is always so crowded that it is best to go early (2 a.m.) or late to avoid claustrophobia.

At 7 a.m. the club closed and we were kicked out onto the streets. We got breakfast before heading home, which means that we ate toast and sandwiches with men and women who were commencing their morning work commute. The sun came up as I finally made my way into bed at 8:15 a.m. 

The Spaniards tell us that sometimes they simply return from a night out, put on some new clothes and go to class in the morning. No wonder people treat their siestas like gold here. The Spanish government should work out some sort of deal with the discotecas—the revenue earned from the entrance fees alone could instantly turn this country’s economic problems around.