Estamos de Puente

There is no direct equivalent for the expression “Estamos de puente,” partly because it’s a figure of speech and partly because it signifies an anomaly that simply doesn’t exist in American culture. Roughly translated it means, “We’re on break.”

In December there are theoretically three weeks of class before Christmas. Today at the end of my Golden Age Linguistics class, my professor brought up the subject of the upcoming week, since there are two bank holidays and two days of class. Keep in mind that this man is the chair of the Spanish Language department, very well-respected and in no way lazy. He started off the conversation by saying, “So. About next week. If you guys will be here, I’ll be here. But I’m just saying that for an 8:30 a.m. class I have to wake up at 6:20, then stand in the cold to catch a bus all the way up here . . . .” Immediately a student in the class shouts out, “Pero profesor, estamos de puente!!” She said it almost indignantly, as if Professor Antonio was suggesting that we hold class on a holiday, rather than the actuality of the situation (not holding class on a non-holiday). The rest of the class avidly nodded their heads, and the professor looked relieved. As if to confirm his decision, he said to the class, “Let’s see where the California students will be next week. Will you come to class?” I smiled timidly and said, “No, sorry, but I’ll be in Paris and Belgium.” The rest of the students cheered. Then the two other Californians piped up about their Italy trip, and it was settled. No class next week. In addition, the week after next Professor Antonio is speaking at a conference in Madrid, so therefore we won’t be having class. And even though the Spanish government has classes run all the way up until December 23, the Spanish people act otherwise, and tend to start their Christmas break a week early. I therefore don’t have Golden Age Linguistics one time in the whole month of December.

            The reason I bring up puentes so much in my posts is not only because they are my main excuse to travel. I feel like puentes are a perfect metaphor for the cultural differences here. People go to class, professors lecture, essays are turned in, yes, but there is a very noticeable emphasis placed on free time, and the importance of doing nothing.

I was watching Eat, Pray, Love the other day (how did I have time to watch four movies this weekend? Because life here is an eternal puente), and there is a scene in which Julia Roberts talks about her time so far in Italy. She says to her new friends, “I feel like all I’ve done here is learn a few Italian words and eat delicious food.” That, in a nutshell, describes my experience too. But then her Italian friend turns to her and says, “You Americans always think you should be doing something. You work so hard that when the weekend comes, you don’t even know how to enjoy it.”

But it’s not only this sappy movie that has me thinking. I’ve had many conversations here with Spanish or Portuguese friends about the differences in lifestyle. They acknowledge that the standard of living is higher in the U.S., but that the work ethic is almost frantic. One friend told me that he thinks we shop so much because we work so hard and then don’t know what to do with our money, so we just buy clothes or kitchen gadgets.

There’ve been a lot of times here where I’ve felt guilty. I used to have a job in Santa Barbara, and be part of three or four different clubs. I was always busy. I worked and studied and exercised and made time for friends. I started to think here that maybe I’m not making the most of my time abroad, because I haven’t gotten involved in any extra curricular activities, and day-to-day life here involves an obscene amount of hanging out and socializing. How can my days be so completely filled when I’m doing about a quarter of the things I did in California? I feel guilty when I stay out till 8 a.m. and then waste the next sunny day lounging. Afternoon coffees with friends now replace my front desk shift working at the RecCen. Going out for tapas is around the hour when my environmental club meetings would take place. I’m taking off ten days to travel through Paris and Belgium, and I don’t even have a job to make back the money on airfare.

Yesterday I was joking with a Spanish friend (yes, while we were at coffee) that I’ve become really lazy here, and have been on a total of three runs in three months. He told me, “Why worry? This is your sabbatical year. It’s ok if you do nothing.”

I think he’s right. Maybe I would learn a few more facts about some 16^th century linguist if there were a single session of class in December. Maybe my pants would fit better if I kept my old exercise regimen, and maybe I could somehow save the world if I established a recycling club at the University of Granada. But I’m pretty sure there’s value in what I’m doing here, even if it feels completely different than my old life. I have to remind myself that a simple interaction at a frutería or an extended weekend with a Spanish family probably teaches me more than reading six textbooks per quarter at Santa Barbara. So for right now, I’m fine with my current extra-curriculars. Eating and drinking and socializing every day and discovering tiny shops in new alleyways around the city and watching “Friends” in Spanish with Neivar is not doing nothing.

In fact, the verb “Hacer” as in “hacer puente” translates as “to do” or “to make.”  

Thanksgiving #2

Since one party is not enough in Spain, we celebrated Thanksgiving a second night on Friday. Our EAP program hosted a huge four-course meal in a fancy restaurant, and we all dressed up and drank unlimited wine and stuffed our faces with attempted traditional food. It was all delicious except for the pumpkin pie, which was simply not pumpkin pie. It broke my heart a little bit because that's what I most miss about Thanksgiving, and I have to say that pumpkin pie and a huge, watery drip coffee (instead of espresso) are two things that should quickly be imported to this country.

First course: both types of wine.

Second: the very traditional Thanksgiving salad with tuna, kiwis and white asparagus. It's pretty and delicious but I'm pretty sure you would never find this at a feast in the States.

Turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing, green beans, and carrots--Spain actually got this right!

And the pumpkin pie--it looks so pretty but it missed the mark.

Our program director Inma basking in the Thanksgiving Spirit

Amalia's First Thanksgiving!

It was such a great nice with great food, drinks, and most importantly, new friends! It's hard to be nostalgic for American holidays when they're celebrated so greatly in Spain. 

El Día de la Acción de Gracias

It’s ironic that the year I feel most grateful in my entire life is the one year I’m in a country that doesn’t celebrate Thanksgiving. I’ve never been so thankful, and yet I’m not sitting around a table full of turkey, green beans, and mashed potatoes, toasting a roomful of people and saying one thing I’m happy for. Instead, I’m waking up early on my day off from school to work on a group project, hiking up the dreaded to campus in close to freezing weather, and wishing I didn’t stay out quite so late celebrating Claire’s birthday the night before. And yet, somehow I still don’t feel pangs for home on Thanksgiving. All I can think about is how I can’t imagine being anywhere but Granada today.

Today, I’m thankful for Alina, the Spanish girl in my Geolinguistics class who offered to help my all-English-speaking group with our assignment. Though in no way obligated to do so, she helped us with our project in addition to our own. She met with us today for four hours, explaining how to use a linguistic atlas, going over the points of the project, and then correcting our summaries. I can’t believe how nice some people are.

I’m thankful for the bocadillos at Cartuja (my campus). They are so giant and delicious and cheap. If I can’t have a massive Thanksgiving feast today, at least I can have a massive sandwich.

I’m thankful that I moved pisos. Trips to her hometown, correcting my essays, teaching me new words, bringing me to afternoon fiestas, sharing her meals, and having endless patience with my foreigness are a few of the reasons that make Neivar a great housemate!

I’m thankful that Spain celebrates so many random holidays, and that the students take school attendance with a grain of salt. This leads to my next point: I’m grateful to be able to travel to Paris and Belgium next week!!

I’m thankful for the Spanish expression “No pasa nada!” which seems to surface so frequently here. Here’s an example. Jenny: “Professor, I just want to let you know that I’m going to be missing the next week and a half of class because I have more pressing priorities, such as traveling instead of learning.” Señor Gonzales: “No pasa nada!” (Don’t worry about it!)

I’m thankful to be studying abroad in the Age of Skype so I can at least tell my family I’m grateful for them on Thanksgiving!

I’m thankful that the bakeries in Granada have started selling traditional Christmas sweets more than a month in advance—how was I living in this city before these came on the shelves??

I’m thankful that I threw in a few pairs of ski socks when I was packing for Spain, and that my mom is going to send me some more (*hint hint*). California weather is a bit more forgiving than Granada’s.

I’m thankful to have celebrated the most nontraditional Thanksgiving of my life: two Americans and two Spaniards sitting around a coffee table eating pasta, bread, and wine. There are few things better than celebrating an American holiday with Italian food in Spanish company. Tonight I also insisted that we uphold my mom’s tradition of going around the table and saying one thing we’re thankful for. Anna and I both said we were grateful to be in Spain, and Neivar and Victor both said they were grateful to know and share their lives with two new Americans.

And now, at last, I’m grateful to end this blog entry so I don’t puke from corniness!!

Home Sweet (Spanish) Home

My decision to move pisos was rewarded this weekend when Neivar invited me to come to her hometown, since she had to return to vote in the presidential election. The whole time I’ve been here I’ve been hoping to spend time with a Spanish family, and I got my wish less than a week after knowing my new roommate!

Neivar lives in a coastal town called La Linea, five minutes from Gibraltar. Neivar, Victor (her boyfriend) and I drove there on Friday night and surprised her parents at home. I don’t think I could have handpicked a better family to visit. Neivar’s mom, dad, and younger sister are so animated, friendly, and generous, and they made me feel right at home.

The weekend, like most things typically Spanish, involved a lot of lounging. Both nights we stayed out until 8 am, then slept until 2. We would wake up to a delicious lunch, spend over an hour at the table chatting, and then lounge some more. (I’ve never been more relaxed in my life than I have been in Spain. I would say it’s adding years to my life, but then staying out till 8 a.m. probably cancels that out).

Both nights after staying out until the wee hours, Neivar’s mom would come pick us up with the car, wearing her bathrobe and slippers. I couldn’t believe it—she got out of bed both nights (mornings, I guess) just to pick up her partying daughter and friends. And what’s more, when we got in the car there was absolutely no complaining—on the contrary, she seemed thrilled when Neivar would relay to her the nights’ events. The two of them would be chatting away in the front seat as the sun was rising, and instead of being annoyed that she had to shlep us around, Inma seemed genuinely joyful that us crazy youth had such a great time. 

This same sort of thing happened after we went shopping. Neivar, her sister Coraima, and I went to a great department store where I got about ten things, including boots, for 65 euros. When we got home, Neivar and Coraima rushed into the kitchen with all their new merchandise to show their mom. Inma told me excitedly, “Jenny, go show me your things too!!” So we all sat around the table showing her our new bags, boots, pijamas and more, while she would exclaim at each new thing, “Ooooh!! Está buenisimo!” or “Está guapisimo!” (Both mean “How pretty! How great!”) I literally wanted to cry at how cute this scene was. It was great to be with a family—and such a fun and generous family, at that—after traveling solo for three months.

Neivar’s friends were equally entertaining. It’s funny how halfway around the world in an entirely different country, guys will be guys just the same as in Santa Barbara or San Anselmo. They were constantly cracking jokes, laughing, dancing, and including me like I had been in their friend group my whole life. It also doesn’t hurt that my Spanish comes to me more easily after a beer or two, so I had no problem communicating with them and even making jokes of my own! Another great thing about Spanish culture: It’s completely acceptable here for guys to hug each other, kiss hello, and in general be way more touchy-feely than in America. It’s nice that guys can express their friendship just like girls, without everyone immediately labeling them as gay.

Victor and Me

The whole group of friends

I am constantly being embarrassed in Spain, whether through public speaking, lack of cultural knowledge, mistaking the greetings, or just generally not having a clue about what’s going on. This weekend proved no different, as I stood out like a black sheep in the discoteca. Girls and guys alike were dancing, but very differently from the way you see at home. Let’s be honest, the American style of grinding requires no talent. But here, people are salsa-ing and spinning and shaking with such skill. I can generally get by ok in Granada since the discotecas are jam-packed. But in a small town like La Linea, there’s room to dance—a little too much room. I sucked up my pride and made a general fool out of myself, but wasn’t too embarrassed since I was with friends. But then some random guy asked me to dance (they actually ask here, instead of just grabbing you from behind like back home!!) and I felt obliged to say yes. About ten seconds in I realized that my hips just can’t move the way Spanish dancing demands, and I had to tell him, in broken Spanish over blasting music, that it was just not going to happen. (Victor told me later—of course, after the fact—that accepting a stranger’s request to dance here means you’re interested in making out with them. Great!! I guess it’s good that I had to cut it short.)

I probably learned more Spanish in one weekend with Neivar’s family and friends than I have in three months in Spain. For the first time since being here I was completely immersed in the language (apart from Neivar’s few attempts to practice her English before her upcoming trip to London), since I wasn’t with any California friends. It’s both an exciting and isolating feeling, and I can’t wait for the day when I can fully participate in a second language. I will say that for the most part I love learning Spanish, but at times this process is very painful. There are many moments when I end up feeling like a little puppy or ten-year-old girl. Since I don’t always know what’s going on, people resort to giving me directions like, “Jenny, come here.” “Jenny, sit.” “Jenny, wait here for 5 minutes and we’ll be right back.” It’s a little hard because I’m so used to being a chatterbox and knowing exactly what’s going on all the time, but I end up staying quiet because my thoughts can’t yet be expressed entirely effectively. Oh well, at least I’m giving someone’s ears a break!

            It was one of the best weekend’s I’ve had here, and I’m definitely going to have to take up her mom’s offer in the near future—“Jenny, vente cuando quieras!” (Come back whenever you want!)

El Jardín de los Niños

A while ago, before I moved pisos, my other landlady Emilia told Gayatri and me that she works at a daycare center and that we could visit her whenever we wanted. Even after I moved the offer still stood, so Gayatri and I decided to visit her and her “chiquitillos” (little ones) this afternoon.

Her Escuela Infantil (daycare) is just a short bus ride away from the city center, but it was worlds away from the experiences I’ve been having thus far in Granada. Most of my time interacting in Spanish is spent with peers or professors, or, apparently as of recently, elderly women in grocery stores. It was the strangest feeling to be interacting with three-year-old boys and girls in a different language—finally I was conversing with native speakers with a comparable level of Spanish to me!! Those who talked said such phrases as “Dáme la pelota” (give me the ball) or “Esta es una naranja” (This is an orange—we were playing with toy fruits). They grasped these words when they’re toddlers, I finally mastered them in my teens, but I guess we are now equals. 

I am so mad at myself that I forgot my camera, because this was one of the cutest experiences in Spain thus far. All the little boys and girls wore striped smocks with their names embroidered on. Some were taking naps in little fold-out beds in the corner while others threw and chased plastic balls around the room. (How some managed to sleep through that chaos is beyond me). Emilia was so endearing with all the children—I really liked her as a landlord, but in this setting even more.

Later Emilia turned on a Spanish song that was apparently the little boy Pedro’s favorite. His eyes lit up when he heard it start, and then he threw up his hands and started to dance. We all jumped around the room to the music, and I tossed some of the kids up and down in the air. Later I showed them all a book full of animals, and would point to a drawing and ask them all to say the name. They started out timidly saying things like “caballo” and “vaca,” and towards the end I had a crowd of little boys around me pointing to parrots and fish and elephants and shouting out the Spanish words. I must say they helped reinforce my knowledge of basic nouns today!! Next time I need to say “hamster” I will not falter.

Emilia told us we could return any time, and we most certainly will. I love little kids and I think stopping by the daycare every so often could be a great from the always great but repetitive schoolwork, tapas, and fiestas. 

Moving Day (Again)

This past week has been a whirlwind for my stay in Granada. I decided to move pisos, because even though I really liked mine, it was always in the back of my mind that I should be living with Spaniards if I wanted to improve my Spanish. I decided I would only move if I found a piso that I really liked, and if I found someone who would take my place right away. Both of these ended up happening very quickly!

I moved into a two-bedroom piso just five minutes away from where I was living before. Neivar, my piso-mate, is a girl from Cadiz, a coastal city about 3 hours away from Granada. I was definitely worried to move in because you never know what will happen, but so far I am so happy with my decision. My new room gets tons of sunlight, which you never think of as really important until you don’t have it (i.e. in my other piso). Neivar is so friendly, and already she has been teaching me new Spanish expressions and cultural tid-bits. Every minute that we’re speaking reaffirms my decision to live with Spaniards in order to improve my language skills.

Today we were talking about cooking, and she told me I should teach her how to make some typical American dishes. I told her that last weekend I had a huge pancake breakfast in my old piso. She nearly died. I wish I could frame her expression, as she turned to her boyfriend Victor and exclaimed, “OH DIOS MIO! My new Californian housemate knows how to make pancakes!!! HOW LONG HAVE I WANTED TO EAT AN AMERICAN PANCAKE??!!!” She kept asking me, do you seriously know how to make them?? I hardly earn credit for being able to add some milk and eggs to a bowl of flour, but still. Her excitement was simply priceless. Later Victor told me that she was talking on the phone to her mom about how ‘la Californiana’ was going to teach her how to make ‘tortitas Americanas!’

Neivar loves to cook, and tonight she whipped out her personal recipe book and was listing off all the things she loves to make (and that I will surely be trying soon!). I can’t believe my luck, finding a Spanish housemate as passionate about eating as me!! Tonight she invited me to share the meal she was cooking for her and her boyfriend, and we had a little family dinner of Fajitas in front of the television.

As a side note, I think we’re going to get along great because her favorite TV show is Friends. As I have seen each episode at least 4 times, I think this is significant. Plus, when we watch Friends together in Spanish it’s great for practicing my comprehension, since I already know the English version by heart!!

Living room

Kitchen

My room

So much light!!

Just in case anyone out there wants to send me something *cough* my new address is:

Jenny Marshall

Calle Horno de Abad nº 6, 1º C.

Granada, España 18001

Procrastinating, and some nice ladies

These days I enjoy writing my blog in order to procrastinate. It seemed like only a few weeks ago that the word procrastinate was meaningless, since I had nothing to put off doing, except having more fun. But school is starting to catch up with me. For a while I had the notion that I was just living in Spain, and occasionally attending a few classes here and there. But then I had to write a full-on essay in Spanish, and follow that with my new worst nightmare: giving an oral presentation of my essay in front of a class of 50 Spaniards. I’ve never been afraid of public speaking before, but never in my life have I wanted to stand in front of an audience less.

Every day I have a greater appreciation for foreign students. I never gave it much thought in Santa Barbara, and in fact there were very few foreigners in my classes there. But now I am constantly remembering how annoyed I would get in one of my linguistics classes last year when this exchange student from Japan would ask questions in class. Her accent was almost impossible to understand and her questions would drag on because she couldn’t ever find the right words. I strained myself from not rolling my eyes. Now I want to find that girl, bow down to her, praise her impressive language skills and retract every negative brainwave I ever sent her.

On a different, more random note, here are some cute old Spanish women anecdotes (those are the best, right??):

The other day I set out on a run—my third run in two months—and then it started to pour. Really pour. By the time I was coming back, I was literally drenched. I then passed a little old lady on the main street, and I have never seen such horror in anyone’s eyes. She looked at me like I must be the most suffering person in the entire world, like she personally wanted to hand me five cups of hot cocoa, a towel and a radiator right there on the spot. I almost felt bad for making her feel such unnecessary empathy. I was soaked, yes, but I hadn’t been hit by a bus or anything. She muttered some things to herself and watched me as I passed, and I almost stopped to assure her that I would bundle up and put on wool socks when I got home. (On second thought, maybe she was looking at me so horrifically because anyone wearing running clothes in public is viewed as crazy here.)

My friend Wren and I bought some bread the other day and were walking down the street nibbling some off the end. A tiny old woman stopped us in the street and exclaimed excitedly, “¿Qué bueno está el pan, no? ¡Mira, vosotras no estáis solas!” (How good is bread, huh? Look, you two are not alone!) She proceeded to pull out a bag full of bread, and one of the loaves had clearly been picked at. She then gave us a huge wink, acting like all three of us had together unlocked the secret to enjoying a baguette. How adorable is that? And who would have thought that getting stopped in the street by an 85+ year-old-woman would be a subtle highlight of my experience here???

Today I was in a grocery store, and another elderly Spanish woman started talking to me. She asked for my help reading the ingredients on something, since she forgot her glasses. While I was searching for milk on the list (she’s apparently lactose intolerant), she looked at me and said, “Qué guapa estás vestido!!” (How nicely you’re dressed!). Then she sincerely thanked me for my help, and looked me straight in the eye: “Nunca se pinta la cara. Preserva tu juventud.” (Never cover that face of yours [in make-up]. Preserve your youth.) What a profound encounter for a grocery store. I left with not only yogurt that day, but some worldly advice and an elevated ego.

By far my favorite part about studying abroad is these types of encounters. (Not exclusively with old women, but hey, those are great too.)

Wren Comes to Town!!!

Wren, one of my best friends from Santa Barbara, visited me this past weekend! She studied abroad in Madrid three years ago, and spent her one week’s vacation time visiting me and her old host family. It was so nice to see her, and have a familiar face from home!

We didn't take one picture together the entire weekend. But this photo depicts our glorious friendship in good ol' Santa Barbara. 

On Saturday morning I threw a Pancake Breakfast in my piso, partly because I miss real breakfast food and partly so Wren could meet a lot of my new friends. There were Spaniards, Germans, Italians, British, Swiss, French, and of course, Americans. ¡Qué internacional! Everyone was thoroughly enjoying the food, and I followed the recipe impressively for not having proper measuring cups or spoons. Until the third batch, when I quickly threw in two and a half tablespoons instead of teaspoons of salt. I hate contributing to the popular stereotype here that Americans are slightly clueless, so I forced myself to eat some and pretended that American pancakes are just more savory than the sweet desert crepes that Europeans are used to! Well, I’m sort of kidding. They were almost inedible.

American, Brit, and Italian, all coexisting.

Nacho being weird, and Anna loving it.

Me, Anna, Paco

Who doesn't love pancakes???

The brunch was a huge success, apart from the salty disaster. Afterwards we went to tapas with a big group of friends, and then went to the discoteca Mae West with Nacho, Gloria, Paco, Ana, and Anna until 7 a.m. It was so much fun but my adrenaline didn’t keep up with me, and I almost fell asleep right there on the dance floor.

On Sunday we met up with my friend Monica, whom I haven’t seen since high school! It was so great to see her. I brought her and Wren to the Mirador San Nicolas, which overlooks the Alhambra and the entire city. We also got gelato in forty-degree weather, and I’m still wondering why. Overall it was a fantastic weekend, and great to catch up with old friends!!

Portugal (Part 2, Lisbon)

           We got into Lisbon in the late afternoon and went directly to the Oceanarium, which is supposed to be world famous. It was in a cool modern area of the city and the marine life was awesome, but nothing you can’t find at good old Monterey Bay Aquarium. We then checked into our hostel. Lisbon has some of the greatest hostels I’ve ever seen. For 11 euros a night we basically stayed in a mansion, with a huge back yard, guest kitchen, bathrooms, bar, etc. The staff was so nice as well. Hostels are the greatest invention in the world. I want to be young forever so that I can stay in them all over the world.

By our hostel’s recommendation we took the subway to a neighborhood called “Barrio Alto,” supposedly the great nightlife area. Lisbon is very hilly, and this neighborhood must be one of the highest spots since there were five long escalators just to get out of the subway station. The metro opened up into a huge plaza filled with regal-looking buildings, and even though it was dark I knew Lisbon was going to be a beautiful city. We found a delicious restaurant that had tapas-sized portions, and then decided to go to a second restaurant for a bit more to eat. We were just going to order soup at the second place, and then the waiter came around with bread, ham and cheese. My first thought was, Portugal is even better than Granada!! Free meat and cheese with every meal?? This shows how accustomed I’ve become to free tapas, because it hit us after that it was too good to be true. Any country, especially Portugal (which is closely tailing Greece with it’s failing economy), would be crazy to serve two of the most expensive food products to every restaurant patron. This was definitely affirmed when we received our bill, and we were not so in love with Portugal for those next few minutes.

          We took a little walk on some random streets after that, and passed an amazing-looking house that looked like it was having a party. All three of us decided we would like to live in that house if we ever moved to Portugal. Then I took a closer look and realized it was our hostel for the next night, the Oasis Backpackers Mansion! Not wanting to miss out on any fun, we crashed the Oasis that night. We just walked right on by reception acting like we had already checked in, and then out to the back patio where everyone was socializing. We ended up hanging out with a Spanish guy from the hostel that night, but had to go back to our real hostel before the metro closed at 1 am. This turned out to be a blessing in disguise, since our real hostel was having a party of its own! We ended up hanging out with some Portuguese guys into the wee hours of the night. They were so friendly and funny and it was well worth the 3 hours of sleep I got that night. 

            The next day, before really seeing any of Lisbon in the daytime, we took a day trip to Sintra, a “fairy-tale town” about 40 minutes away. It took over an hour to buy our tickets, as the station was a madhouse. Once we arrived in Sintra, we were greeted by the same crowds. It’s a very popular tourist destination because Sintra is where the royals used to go on vacation, so there are several amazing castles. It really did remind me of a town right out of a story-book, or Dulock in Shrek. To reach the most famous palace, we would have to walk over an hour up a steep hill, or take a bus. However, the bus didn’t stop for us because there was too huge a crowd at the station, so we set out on the trek. Sort of frustrated from the massive crowds, first at the train station and now here—and already hot and sweaty from the first 15 minutes of uphill—we made a group decision: hitchhike. My first time hitchhiking might as well be in a storybook fairytale town—better that than Compton, right?? After sticking out our thumb for about ten minutes, someone finally stopped—and of course they were from California! Us Californians have to stick together. The ride was a huge relief, and the people were so nice that I’m afraid I got a little too comfortable with hitchhiking.

The first place we went, Palacio da Pena, is perched on the highest peak of the highest hill. It was built in the 1800s for the Royal Family. These pictures do it better justice than I do. But seriously, was this castle the inspiration for every fantasy ever written?? And why wasn’t Shrek just filmed here instead of animated??

            We then went to the Moorish Castle. Absolutely amazing. It was like a mini Great Wall of China (the guidebook’s words, not mine) and an Irish castle combined. The views from the wall were incredible. No wonder it seemed like every tourist in Europe was in this town.

           Sintra was absolutely worth the crowds. Although we encountered the same droves of people trying to get down from the mountain, so of course we stuck out our thumbs yet again. Hitchhiking is scarily addicting…No one was taking the bait, however, and we were almost resigned to squeezing in with the throngs of people for the next overpriced bus. But then some nice Portuguese man in nothing more than a BMW SUV picked us up. So instead of being packed like cattle in a hot and stuffy bus for the next 40 minutes, we rode in a luxury vehicle. Seriously, can someone remind me again of the downsides of hitchhiking??

          Once back in Lisbon after what felt like way too long of a day, we checked into our new hostel, the Oasis, with which we were already very familiar thanks to the previous night. We planned on staying in two different hostels because this one was a much better location, but booked full the first night. We met some cool people and ate dinner at the hostel, and then went out to Barrio Alto again. I was way too tired for any real bar-hopping, so I turned in early.

         At last, Monday was our day to really see Lisbon. So much of our time in the city felt like it was spent traveling—metro, trams, trains, walking between stops—but it was so worth it. Lisbon is quite literally San Francisco—hills, trolleys, water, old buildings, and even a bridge that looks (almost) exactly like the Golden Gate since it was designed by the same man! But of course it’s older and more regal-looking than S.F, and there are castles jutting out from the hills and 16^th century church tops poking the sky. We went to a very nice neighborhood called Belém where Vasco de Gama set sail. Then we took a scenic trolley ride through the city and reached the old Moorish quarters. Why is it that the Moorish districts are always the greatest? The Albaicín in Granada is the most beautiful part of the city, and Alfama in Lisbon was unbeatable. In the heart of this district there were several viewpoints overlooking the whole city, and a Moorish castle perched on top.

Just had to throw this in--a barbershop sign in Lisbon!

We then crossed into another neighborhood to check out a very old church that was half destroyed in Lisbon’s 18^th century earthquake. The half that remains is incredible. There is no roof, only arches. We were so tired that we almost didn’t enter this monument, but it turned out to be one of the highlights of the trip.

            Since we were taking a midnight bus back to Porto that night, we didn’t book a hostel and so we were essentially homeless all of Monday. After hours of walking around we were extremely exhausted, so we ended up crashing the Oasis again, since we left our stuff there for the day. Before retrieving our luggage, we hung out in the common room, used the internet and the bathroom, and relaxed on the couches. Since it was Halloween, the hostel was throwing a little party. Little did they know that we were basically bums using them for free shelter, but they threw costumes in our faces and free drinks into our hands!! I’m telling you, Lisbon hostels are the greatest. 

            We then went to dinner (yes, their Halloween party started before dinner) at the same tapas-style restaurant we ate at the first night. The owner of the restaurant was there. He recognized us since the first night he helped give us directions and tell us some of the must-see sights. We told him about our travels and he was so incredibly nice. He then gave us some free hard apple cider and chatted with us longer. Eventually he asked us if he could join our table! We ended up eating dinner and talking to him for an hour and a half. He was such an interesting man, and told us all about his master plan to open up a unique hotel (I’m sworn to secrecy about the details), his desire to open up a classy and affordable restaurant (check!), politics, languages, and so much more. At the end he told us to keep in touch, which we definitely would if I wasn’t so dumb as to lose his email!

            We then headed back to our first hostel, since the Portuguese guys we met the first night informed us of the Halloween party that was happening there. Halloween in Portugal is about 1,000 times calmer than Halloween in Santa Barbara, although as luck would have it, we were the only ones not dressed up at this very festive party. Luckily we kept the stick-on mustaches that the Oasis hostel gave us, so we looked a little less unspirited. It helped us get a free cup of punch, anyway. We only had an hour at this party until we had to catch the midnight bus, but it was a perfect end to the trip. The guys were so nice and we already felt like friends after only knowing them for a few days. We were almost tempted to “miss” our bus and flight so they would have to drive us back to Spain, and we could hang out with them on the car ride!!!

André dressed as Salvador Dali, which I definitely didn't guess. Sorry André!

           I can’t really put into words how amazing Portugal was, which is definitely why this blog entry is so wordy! But the people, the food, the scenery, the royal splendor of a country that was at the peak of power centuries ago—all this combined into two absolutely breathtaking cities. (I will not mention the 18 hours of travel it took to get back to Granada. How does it take as long to travel from Portugal to Granada as it did to travel from San Francisco to Madrid??)

Obrigada, Portugal! I’ll be back!

Portugal (Part 1, Porto)

           The biggest question on my mind right now is why my parents didn’t birth and raise me in Portugal. The greatest part of traveling for me is falling in love with each new place I visit, but I think Portugal may have just taken the cake. Which will explain why this blog entry is so long, because I need to be able to read it in a year from now and remember every single detail.

           Katie, Hannah and I took a midnight bus to Madrid on Wednesday night to fly to Porto, the second largest city in Portugal. It didn’t even hit me until we got off the metro in Porto that there was going to be a language barrier on this trip, since I’ve only traveled to English or Spanish speaking countries for the last three years. Luckily my friend Hannah looked up some simple phrases before we left, such as “Thank you” and “Do you speak English or Spanish?” Most of our encounters with people involved lots of pointing and gesturing, or just standing there awkwardly until people attempted English with us.

           It was raining lightly when we arrived, which only enhanced the amazing city of Porto. It is one of the most third-world looking cities I have seen so far in Europe, with decaying buildings interspersed with beautiful colored and tiled apartments and shops. There are many apartments that are simply abandoned, with broken windows and lopsided stories. Why was this so beautiful, you ask? There is something completely eerie and fantastic about vibrant homes and crumbling shacks sharing the same building, and the city felt almost like a populated ghost town. The gray clouds enhanced the creepy feeling, and I could picture Portugal in the 15th century, in all its glory. I’m realizing this hardly makes sense, so here’s some pictures.

Lots of colorful buildings....

....but these ones has seen better days.

After walking around and seeing some beautiful old churches and buildings, we headed down to the river. The sun broke out at this point and it was unreal. The river is lined with buildings of every color, and it looked like a postcard (which it actually is—the one I bought, in fact.) We crossed the river on one of Porto’s six bridges, because on the other side there are at least ten wine cellars. Porto is famous for its Port Wine, and most of these places give free tastings! So we cellar-hopped until we were nice and tipsy, which didn’t take long since Port wine is twice as alcoholic as table wine. The next day we took a boat ride up and down the river, saw more gorgeous old buildings, found the most amazing pastry shop for lunch (Portugal is cheaper and more delicious than Spain), and basically wandered all over the city. We then had an afternoon drink (just juice this time!) on a glass-encased terrace that overlooked the whole city.

In the morning we took a train to Lisbon, stopping briefly in a town called Aveiro, which is supposed to be the “Venice of Portugal” but that's a bit of a long-shot. It was a fine town but we should have gone straight down to Lisbon, since I could spend a lifetime in that city and never get bored. Now for Lisbon's entry...prepare for a novel....