A few nights ago, with both roommates out of town and the few friends I have scattered about, I took it upon myself to find an interesting activity. I had read in a guide book about this live music club called Jamboree, which on Mondays has a weekly jam session called "What the Funk". I figured watching live music was probably as appropriate a thing that one could do while alone, so I set out.
For a three euro cover, I was able to enter the underground club, which felt like a bomb shelter with blaring music. I was pleased to see very few if any Americans (although plenty of tourists), and the music was, for the most part, really good. The musicians were constantly rotating, with the exception of a sax player who stayed up the entire time I was there. One of the guitarists, whom I thought to be the best, reminded me uncannily of Rabbi Franzel from my synagogue at home (Ethan, that wasn't you, was it?).
The place was pretty small, but I was truly shocked when, during a brief intermission, a guy standing a few people from me called up to the stage and accused the sax player of hogging the solos and playing too much. I only caught a bit of the exchange that flowed between Spanish and Catalan, but the sax player actually listened to the guy and the exchange had a peaceful, albeit argumentative tone. I couldn't believe the performer actually gave a complaining audience member the time of day.
After midnight the music got a little more intense, the girl next to me hit my elbow with the lit end of her cigarette, and German teenagers started dancing crazily getting all up in my space. I left the club, but was proud of making the most of a lonely night, the last I had in my old apartment on Carrer Ausiás Marc.
Monday, April 30, 2007
Messi goal
Apparently this was one of the best goals in soccer history. And I was there. Also, I'm experimenting with posting youTube videos to the blog.
Sunday, April 29, 2007
A nation of immigrants
I was hanging out last night some more with Francis, my new Brazilian friend. He was telling me about how after living here for three years, he'll become legal and be well on his way towards European citizenship. He asked me what the US's policy is. You know, like how long does after you arrive in the country illegally do you become legal? Or how do you get in legally? Or can you go to school/college if you're illegal? I realized that despite all the recent debate on the topic, and my personal interaction with many Mexican immigrants through Habla, I have no idea what the current state of US immigration policy is.
Francis just could not comprehend, no matter how I tried to explain the complexity of American politics and rhetoric and geographic isolation and terror-inspired xenophobia, how difficult is it to immigrate into a country that itself consists of immigrants averaging only a few generations.
Francis just could not comprehend, no matter how I tried to explain the complexity of American politics and rhetoric and geographic isolation and terror-inspired xenophobia, how difficult is it to immigrate into a country that itself consists of immigrants averaging only a few generations.
Saturday, April 28, 2007
Ya no soy turista!
Just now, in the metro, someone asked me directions! And they weren't even American!
De dónde eres?
After returning from Morocco, having realized the benefits of meeting people online who are interested in language and cultural exchange, I was inspired continue the task of making local friends. That, combined with the departure of about 3,000 Americans on semester programs and a long weekend where most of the kids on my tiny program are away, led me to post an ad on loquo, the Barcelona craigslist, for a language exchange.
I got a few interesting replies, including Francis, a 20-year old from Brazil, and David, a 20-year local. Francis also gave me his screen name, so we chatted a little bit, and we had this interesting exhange:
[05:34] francis: TU TIENES NOVIA EN ESTADOS UNIDOS?
[05:34] Dan: no
[05:34] Dan: y tu?
[05:34] francis: SI AQUI
[05:34] francis: PERO UN DETALLE
[05:34] Dan: como se llama
[05:35] francis: NO ES CHICA ES UN CHICO
As those of you that understand a little bit about Spanish can see, I stumbled upon a gay guy who responded to my highly platonic language exchange post. After chatting we made plans to meet in Placa Catalunya (like the most public, busiest part of town), and David and I set out to meet him around 5 this afternoon. He came with his boyfriend, who is German, and we set off walking around for a little while in search of a cafe. Francis speaks four languages: Portuguese, Spanish, Catalan, and English, whereas Ralf, his boyfriend (who appeared considerably older) speaks 8: the aforementioned in addition to German, French, Dutch, and a dash of Arabic. They both have been living here for a few years, and have been dating for the last year.
We ended up having a very multi-lingual conversation. Since David speaks barely any Spanish, Francis spent most of the time coaxing the little that David knew out of him. I spoke mostly to Ralf in a mixture of Spanish and English. And when Francis spoke to me, he would do it in Portuguese and tell me to respond in Spanish. I was surprised how much I could understand (he was also gesticulating profusely), and he got a kick out of my sometimes not realizing which language he was speaking.
I have to say I was surprised how well we got along, and our conversation helped me to realize how international a city Barcelona is. The city is full of ex-pats from all over the world, and their friends include the French and German more than the Spanish or Catalan (which are different, take care). It was really fun having a conversation that flowed naturally between languages, and we made plans to hang out again.
So even if I didn't make a Catalan or Barcelonés friend, I'm glad to have made some international friends. I'm still working on the locals.
I got a few interesting replies, including Francis, a 20-year old from Brazil, and David, a 20-year local. Francis also gave me his screen name, so we chatted a little bit, and we had this interesting exhange:
[05:34] francis: TU TIENES NOVIA EN ESTADOS UNIDOS?
[05:34] Dan: no
[05:34] Dan: y tu?
[05:34] francis: SI AQUI
[05:34] francis: PERO UN DETALLE
[05:34] Dan: como se llama
[05:35] francis: NO ES CHICA ES UN CHICO
As those of you that understand a little bit about Spanish can see, I stumbled upon a gay guy who responded to my highly platonic language exchange post. After chatting we made plans to meet in Placa Catalunya (like the most public, busiest part of town), and David and I set out to meet him around 5 this afternoon. He came with his boyfriend, who is German, and we set off walking around for a little while in search of a cafe. Francis speaks four languages: Portuguese, Spanish, Catalan, and English, whereas Ralf, his boyfriend (who appeared considerably older) speaks 8: the aforementioned in addition to German, French, Dutch, and a dash of Arabic. They both have been living here for a few years, and have been dating for the last year.
We ended up having a very multi-lingual conversation. Since David speaks barely any Spanish, Francis spent most of the time coaxing the little that David knew out of him. I spoke mostly to Ralf in a mixture of Spanish and English. And when Francis spoke to me, he would do it in Portuguese and tell me to respond in Spanish. I was surprised how much I could understand (he was also gesticulating profusely), and he got a kick out of my sometimes not realizing which language he was speaking.
I have to say I was surprised how well we got along, and our conversation helped me to realize how international a city Barcelona is. The city is full of ex-pats from all over the world, and their friends include the French and German more than the Spanish or Catalan (which are different, take care). It was really fun having a conversation that flowed naturally between languages, and we made plans to hang out again.
So even if I didn't make a Catalan or Barcelonés friend, I'm glad to have made some international friends. I'm still working on the locals.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Two Hundred Dirhams and a Pound of Dead Skin
Alas, we're back. After a short, but highly exciting and well-rounded trip to Morocco, David and I are back in Barcelona. We saw Marrakech and Casablanca, made some new friends and ate some delicious food. Now, I will try my best to recount the highlights, and help you to appreciate what an interesting place "Maghrib" is. Sorry if it's extremely long, but I want to do justice to all of the great aspects of our trip.
We flew into Marrakech Airport at about 10:30 am on Saturday, and took a taxi directly to our Riad, or guest house. The two languages spoken in Morocco are Arabic and French, so we had a bit of trouble communicating, but generally taxi drivers were able to say numbers in English. Where the taxi stopped, we couldn't actually see the riad, so we withheld payment to the driver until he showed us where to go. Good thing we did this, because the streets here were really just alleys (maybe 4 feet wide), and the path involved three turns. But we found the door with nothing more than a 48 on it, and knocked.
Hassan, the proprietor, welcomed us in to what ended up being one of the most charming houses I've seen. It's a 6-room, 12-guest riad, set up in a square around a naturally lit courtyard, covered with intricate carvings and brightly colored tiles. Hassan immediately offered us Moroccan mint tea--which is delicious--and talked to us a little about our travels. Wanting to make the most of our day, however, we dropped some heavy stuff in our room and ventured out into the city.
The medina, or medieval center, of Marrakech is focused on a main square from which many other alleys radiate. The whole area is swarmed with souks, or shops, selling everything from spices, to shawls, to live chickens, and is bustling with activity. We took about an hour and a half wandering through the alleys, inhaling the incredible aromas of unnamed spices, and looking for a decent meal. We shared a tagine at a little stand where we were the only customers, which was basically a lamb, potatoe and carrot stew in a clay pot, in addition to the bread rounds that were everywhere. All this, with two Pepsi's, for about $5 total.
Having earlier connected on CouchSurfing, we found a payphone and called Ismail, a guy who was interested in meeting to show us around the town. Although for a second we doubted his integrity when it turned out he hadn't actually attended Stanford but actually only thought it was a cool place, Ismail was sincere and genuinely interested in meeting us, two American students. A 24-year old English student/part time teacher, Ismail's English was perfect despite his never having left Morocco, and it was great having him to speak Arabic to shopkeepers and keep the riffraff off our tails.
We spent the entire afternoon together, from around 2pm until after dinner, seeing both the medina and the nouveau sections of Marrakech outside the city walls. We tasted Moroccan cookies, saw chickens weighed for customers while they were still alive, and went into the market where the locals buy their goods. Also in the old part of town, we explored a palace from around the 15th-16th century, which is now ruins, and climbed up to the roof for a view of the city.
The newer sections of the city were interesting because they showed the growing influence of the French (before independence from France, residing in the nouveau section was reserved for the French). There were a few chic stores, and a recently constructed avenue with large hotels and a beautiful convention center. The center of the avenue, in addition to many others in this section, had wide walkways lined with trees that were quite beautiful. We stopped for tea at a cafe on this avenue; and just in time, because it began to pour for about half an hour.
We walked back into the town square for dinner, where a fully-fledged market had erupted. What had earlier been a gaggle of tourists had evolved into rows of stalls containing outdoor mini-restaurants, complete with tables. Many were the same, so to differentiate themselves, they had guys yelling at us to sit and eat at their place. We arbitrarily picked one, and subsequently feasted on tomato salsa, olives, bread rounds, chicken kebabs, and sausages, followed with complementary tea. Rather than give us a check, the waiter wrote mysterious numbers on the placemat which added up to 120 dirhams--about 14 dollars, for three of us. As if that wasn't enough, walked over to another row of competing stands, all selling orange juice squeezed on sight, and bought tall glasses of freshly squeezed orange juice for 3 dirham (35 cents) each.
We parted from Ismail after eating, and promised to keep in touch. Throughout the day, we had talked about everything: religion, Moroccan culture and customs, politics, American culture, the American dream, and our plans for the future. Ismail was generally positive on America, and was interested by all aspects of society. Turns out we both really loved Little Miss Sunshine, which portrays one Middle-American family's voyage and the different desires of Americans. Ismail also told us about how hard it is to Travel outside Morocco, and that a Moroccan passport is essentially worthless unless you are quite wealthy (otherwise the country you're visiting is apt to think you're there to stay). All in all we were amazed with how awesome it is to have the opportunity to spend a day with someone from such a different world, and vowed to use CouchSurfing or a similiar means to connect with locals on the rest of our trips.
Before bed we explored a little more of our neighborhood. At night, and in areas where few (if any) people spoke english, we found it very interesting to see how the locals spend their Saturday night. Women were almost nowhere to be found, and the men mostly idled around as their stores and the other establishments closed. Alcohol, also, was almost nowhere to be seen, as Muslim culture frowns upon alcohol and it is only consumed behind closed doors. Although we felt a little uncomfortable, it was exciting to be doing something that other tourists don't experience, and we never felt in danger. Another batch of rain led us back to the riad, but we were glad to have had the chance to walk around and see a little more.
As if the night wasn't uncomfortable enough, Sunday morning brought the highlight of the trip: for discomfort, uniqueness, and authenticity. Hassan connected us with Hamid (either his friend or employee, it was unclear), to take us to the local Hammam, or traditional bathhouse. Just around the corner from the riad, this was most certainly not for tourists (many touristy Hammams are actually just spas), and we paid Hamid 100 DH (about $12) each to take us in.
We never would have anticipated what it was going to be like. Upon entry, you buy a wad of black soap and grab a few 5-gallon buckets, and enter a locker room where you change into just underwear. The next three rooms are the steam rooms, in order of increasing heat, and we walked straight to the furthest one. All around were men ranging in age from 10 to 60, lounging on the floor (there were no seats), scrubbing themselves with soap or rough gloves, or scrubbing their friend. The amount of physical contanct was astounding, and could only be described as a complete disbelief in homosexuality.
Little did we know we were in for a similar fate. Apparently, our $12 included full body massages and scrubs from our friend Hamid. We sat like the idiots that we were as we waited for further instructions from Hamid, and evenutally he had filled the buckets and was ready to begin. Over the next hour and a half, in turn, he massaged us, srubbed us with the black soap, stretched our muscles (a bit intense on the arms and legs), srubbed off all of our dead skin with the rough glove, and gave a final scrub that included hair washing. While it was the other's turn, we would lie down and relax in the steam. With the exception of the areas covered by our underwear, everything was fair game, and it was unbelievalbe to us how natural it was.
We talked a bit to Hamid out the nature of the custom, which apparently is done once a week or so. Also, if you have a guest, it is customary to bring him to the Hammam. The experience wasn't really all that relaxing, nor did I actually feel all that clean afterwards, but it was incredible to have experienced what was truly a traditional activity so different from anything you would experience in the United States. By the time we left, it was already noon, and time to catch a train to Casablanca.
After our three hour train ride, we arrived in Casablanca, which contrasts strongly with Marrakech. A bustling town of business, there was less charm and more hassle in this city than we really wanted to deal with. The highlight, as we had been told, was the Hassan II Mosque, It's enormous. We walked from our hotel (which wasn't nearly as charming as the Riad, but only $35 a night), and explored it from the outside. It's right on the coast, and extending southwest is a boardwalk like area reminiscent of Crissy Field, although dirtier. Hundreds of people were out (no tourists) enjoying the sun, and possibly acknowleging the monstrocity of the mosque. The mosque itself is probably best described in pictures, which I promise to post as soon as I can.
We walked around a little Sunday night around the city, which included our happening upon a flash-mob of people at the train station waiting to welcome the Casa Football team home. They were quite rowdy--chanting in unison what must be the team's fight song, The cops came and broke it up, and we silently left, but it was pretty cool too have seen, If only we'd had our camera phones. The rest of the night was a similar combination of discomfort and cultural experience, seeing the less traditional people (again, almost all male), hanging out on the streets of the nightlife area. Again, not unsafe, but being the only Americans in sight came with natural feelings of helplessness should a problem arisen.
We spent the rest of the night on the hotel's rooftop terrace, overlooking the port, neighboring buildings, and looking at the well lit mosque which lay about a mile away. We were glad to reflect on the trip, talk about cultures, and think about what we look for in travel and what we hope to learn from our trip. Discomfort, we concluded, helps immensely towards making a trip unique and worthwhile, and we were pleased with our success at experiencing as genuine a Morocco as possible.
We flew into Marrakech Airport at about 10:30 am on Saturday, and took a taxi directly to our Riad, or guest house. The two languages spoken in Morocco are Arabic and French, so we had a bit of trouble communicating, but generally taxi drivers were able to say numbers in English. Where the taxi stopped, we couldn't actually see the riad, so we withheld payment to the driver until he showed us where to go. Good thing we did this, because the streets here were really just alleys (maybe 4 feet wide), and the path involved three turns. But we found the door with nothing more than a 48 on it, and knocked.
Hassan, the proprietor, welcomed us in to what ended up being one of the most charming houses I've seen. It's a 6-room, 12-guest riad, set up in a square around a naturally lit courtyard, covered with intricate carvings and brightly colored tiles. Hassan immediately offered us Moroccan mint tea--which is delicious--and talked to us a little about our travels. Wanting to make the most of our day, however, we dropped some heavy stuff in our room and ventured out into the city.
The medina, or medieval center, of Marrakech is focused on a main square from which many other alleys radiate. The whole area is swarmed with souks, or shops, selling everything from spices, to shawls, to live chickens, and is bustling with activity. We took about an hour and a half wandering through the alleys, inhaling the incredible aromas of unnamed spices, and looking for a decent meal. We shared a tagine at a little stand where we were the only customers, which was basically a lamb, potatoe and carrot stew in a clay pot, in addition to the bread rounds that were everywhere. All this, with two Pepsi's, for about $5 total.
Having earlier connected on CouchSurfing, we found a payphone and called Ismail, a guy who was interested in meeting to show us around the town. Although for a second we doubted his integrity when it turned out he hadn't actually attended Stanford but actually only thought it was a cool place, Ismail was sincere and genuinely interested in meeting us, two American students. A 24-year old English student/part time teacher, Ismail's English was perfect despite his never having left Morocco, and it was great having him to speak Arabic to shopkeepers and keep the riffraff off our tails.
We spent the entire afternoon together, from around 2pm until after dinner, seeing both the medina and the nouveau sections of Marrakech outside the city walls. We tasted Moroccan cookies, saw chickens weighed for customers while they were still alive, and went into the market where the locals buy their goods. Also in the old part of town, we explored a palace from around the 15th-16th century, which is now ruins, and climbed up to the roof for a view of the city.
The newer sections of the city were interesting because they showed the growing influence of the French (before independence from France, residing in the nouveau section was reserved for the French). There were a few chic stores, and a recently constructed avenue with large hotels and a beautiful convention center. The center of the avenue, in addition to many others in this section, had wide walkways lined with trees that were quite beautiful. We stopped for tea at a cafe on this avenue; and just in time, because it began to pour for about half an hour.
We walked back into the town square for dinner, where a fully-fledged market had erupted. What had earlier been a gaggle of tourists had evolved into rows of stalls containing outdoor mini-restaurants, complete with tables. Many were the same, so to differentiate themselves, they had guys yelling at us to sit and eat at their place. We arbitrarily picked one, and subsequently feasted on tomato salsa, olives, bread rounds, chicken kebabs, and sausages, followed with complementary tea. Rather than give us a check, the waiter wrote mysterious numbers on the placemat which added up to 120 dirhams--about 14 dollars, for three of us. As if that wasn't enough, walked over to another row of competing stands, all selling orange juice squeezed on sight, and bought tall glasses of freshly squeezed orange juice for 3 dirham (35 cents) each.
We parted from Ismail after eating, and promised to keep in touch. Throughout the day, we had talked about everything: religion, Moroccan culture and customs, politics, American culture, the American dream, and our plans for the future. Ismail was generally positive on America, and was interested by all aspects of society. Turns out we both really loved Little Miss Sunshine, which portrays one Middle-American family's voyage and the different desires of Americans. Ismail also told us about how hard it is to Travel outside Morocco, and that a Moroccan passport is essentially worthless unless you are quite wealthy (otherwise the country you're visiting is apt to think you're there to stay). All in all we were amazed with how awesome it is to have the opportunity to spend a day with someone from such a different world, and vowed to use CouchSurfing or a similiar means to connect with locals on the rest of our trips.
Before bed we explored a little more of our neighborhood. At night, and in areas where few (if any) people spoke english, we found it very interesting to see how the locals spend their Saturday night. Women were almost nowhere to be found, and the men mostly idled around as their stores and the other establishments closed. Alcohol, also, was almost nowhere to be seen, as Muslim culture frowns upon alcohol and it is only consumed behind closed doors. Although we felt a little uncomfortable, it was exciting to be doing something that other tourists don't experience, and we never felt in danger. Another batch of rain led us back to the riad, but we were glad to have had the chance to walk around and see a little more.
As if the night wasn't uncomfortable enough, Sunday morning brought the highlight of the trip: for discomfort, uniqueness, and authenticity. Hassan connected us with Hamid (either his friend or employee, it was unclear), to take us to the local Hammam, or traditional bathhouse. Just around the corner from the riad, this was most certainly not for tourists (many touristy Hammams are actually just spas), and we paid Hamid 100 DH (about $12) each to take us in.
We never would have anticipated what it was going to be like. Upon entry, you buy a wad of black soap and grab a few 5-gallon buckets, and enter a locker room where you change into just underwear. The next three rooms are the steam rooms, in order of increasing heat, and we walked straight to the furthest one. All around were men ranging in age from 10 to 60, lounging on the floor (there were no seats), scrubbing themselves with soap or rough gloves, or scrubbing their friend. The amount of physical contanct was astounding, and could only be described as a complete disbelief in homosexuality.
Little did we know we were in for a similar fate. Apparently, our $12 included full body massages and scrubs from our friend Hamid. We sat like the idiots that we were as we waited for further instructions from Hamid, and evenutally he had filled the buckets and was ready to begin. Over the next hour and a half, in turn, he massaged us, srubbed us with the black soap, stretched our muscles (a bit intense on the arms and legs), srubbed off all of our dead skin with the rough glove, and gave a final scrub that included hair washing. While it was the other's turn, we would lie down and relax in the steam. With the exception of the areas covered by our underwear, everything was fair game, and it was unbelievalbe to us how natural it was.
We talked a bit to Hamid out the nature of the custom, which apparently is done once a week or so. Also, if you have a guest, it is customary to bring him to the Hammam. The experience wasn't really all that relaxing, nor did I actually feel all that clean afterwards, but it was incredible to have experienced what was truly a traditional activity so different from anything you would experience in the United States. By the time we left, it was already noon, and time to catch a train to Casablanca.
After our three hour train ride, we arrived in Casablanca, which contrasts strongly with Marrakech. A bustling town of business, there was less charm and more hassle in this city than we really wanted to deal with. The highlight, as we had been told, was the Hassan II Mosque, It's enormous. We walked from our hotel (which wasn't nearly as charming as the Riad, but only $35 a night), and explored it from the outside. It's right on the coast, and extending southwest is a boardwalk like area reminiscent of Crissy Field, although dirtier. Hundreds of people were out (no tourists) enjoying the sun, and possibly acknowleging the monstrocity of the mosque. The mosque itself is probably best described in pictures, which I promise to post as soon as I can.
We walked around a little Sunday night around the city, which included our happening upon a flash-mob of people at the train station waiting to welcome the Casa Football team home. They were quite rowdy--chanting in unison what must be the team's fight song, The cops came and broke it up, and we silently left, but it was pretty cool too have seen, If only we'd had our camera phones. The rest of the night was a similar combination of discomfort and cultural experience, seeing the less traditional people (again, almost all male), hanging out on the streets of the nightlife area. Again, not unsafe, but being the only Americans in sight came with natural feelings of helplessness should a problem arisen.
We spent the rest of the night on the hotel's rooftop terrace, overlooking the port, neighboring buildings, and looking at the well lit mosque which lay about a mile away. We were glad to reflect on the trip, talk about cultures, and think about what we look for in travel and what we hope to learn from our trip. Discomfort, we concluded, helps immensely towards making a trip unique and worthwhile, and we were pleased with our success at experiencing as genuine a Morocco as possible.
Friday, April 20, 2007
Old friends and old friends
Wednesday night was the long-awaited FC Barcelona football match. We started the evening drinking our liter-bottles of beer on the subway, attracting countless stares and mutterings that can only be assumed as "stupid Americans". Fortunately, both of my two roommates had purchased Barca jerseys, so our intentions were obvious and for the most part I think we were absolved. After arriving at the stadium, we picked up our tickets, and went around in search of a bar. Tailgating, apparently, is a very American phenomenon, and the real Spaniards go to any of the local dive bars to get trashed before the game. We went to one such bar, and sat down at a table with two older men. Scott started talking to them, and before we knew it, we had our first genuine Catalan friends. Aged 66 and 81, respectively, we communicated haphazardly about important topics such as football, travel, and George Bush. They were season ticket holders, and had probably been going to games forever. We left to run over to the other bar that was selling bocadillos para llevar (sandwiches to go), and immediately regretted not snapping our photo with them. However, seeing that "they're old; they probably walk slowly", we easily caught up to them in the parade from the bars to the stadium and took a quick snapshot.
Getting into the stadium was quite an adventure. Mind you, I was about 5 beers deep, and apparently had lost some of my usual prowess with regard to technological devices. The entry turnstiles were similar to those at the Phillies stadium, where you hold the bar-coded side of the ticket under a little reader, and it allows you to pass through. I was not quite patient enough to wait for the green light to flash, so naturally, the turnstile didn't allow me in. The green light went off a second later, but in my confusion, I didn't attempt to walk through the turnstile until the next second, by which time the green light was off, and there I was outside the stadium with a ticket that has already been used. In a panic, I tried going to the turnstile next to me, but of course, I was rejected as having a ticket that was "repitido", and the light remained red. I appealed to one of the guys working there, who tried to make what he could of my story ("It was green, but I didn't walk through in time!") and appealed to his manager. Fortunately one of the other employees had seen my original debacle, and told the manager ("dio prisa, he visto" or "he was in a rush, I saw") and I was permitted to enter the stadium. Crisis averted, although I couldn't help but wonder what they'd do in the US.
The game itself was very exciting, with a high score of 5-2 in favor of Barcelona over Getafe, a team from near Madrid. We had seats in the first row of the highest section, behind the goal that Barca was shooting on. I don't really know much about soccer, so I couldn't really tell you the details of any exciting plays, but suffice it to say, it was exciting. What was also exciting, however, was when I realized that the person sitting right behind me (in a 100,000 seat stadium) was Jamie Brod, a very close friend of two of my camp friends. We'd met years earlier at NFTY events, and you can imagine my surprise when I saw her right behind me. She, of course, has been studying in Barcelona since January, in the same building that I have my classes in. So we took a picture of us together, and now I'm just waiting for her to tag me on facebook.
At halftime we moved over to the other side and lower, into a rowdier and more crowded section. This is where I learned a few of their cheers, which mostly aren't more complicated than "Barca, Barca, Barrrrrca", and also increased my profanity vocabulary. Most of what was said that I could pick up was along the lines of "cabrón, maricón, and puta"; which if you don't know what they mean, your life is none the worse.
Thursday night, we had a little all-male dinner party, that included four of us from the program, one of Scott's friends from school who was in town, and two of my grade school friends, Sean Comroe and Zach Kramer. I don't think I'd seen Zach since about 8th grade, the last time we went to school together, which is somewhat surprising considering he lives in my neighborhood. But they're both studying here, and are leaving with the rest of the semester kids in about a week. It was nice to catch up; hearing about who has changed, who hasn't, and who got knocked up (no one I really knew that well).
Tomorrow morning David and I fly to Morocco. We tried to get a free place to stay by using this website called CouchSurfing, which didn't exactly work. If you're not familiar with the site, people post profiles and their ability to have travelers crash on their couch. Neither of the two guys we messaged were able to host us (or thought we looked sketchy and opted not to), but we did find a Stanford alum in Marrakech who posts his hosting availability as "coffee or a drink". He wrote back with his cell phone number, so hopefully we'll meet up with him upon our arrival tomorrow to get our bearings on the city.
Getting into the stadium was quite an adventure. Mind you, I was about 5 beers deep, and apparently had lost some of my usual prowess with regard to technological devices. The entry turnstiles were similar to those at the Phillies stadium, where you hold the bar-coded side of the ticket under a little reader, and it allows you to pass through. I was not quite patient enough to wait for the green light to flash, so naturally, the turnstile didn't allow me in. The green light went off a second later, but in my confusion, I didn't attempt to walk through the turnstile until the next second, by which time the green light was off, and there I was outside the stadium with a ticket that has already been used. In a panic, I tried going to the turnstile next to me, but of course, I was rejected as having a ticket that was "repitido", and the light remained red. I appealed to one of the guys working there, who tried to make what he could of my story ("It was green, but I didn't walk through in time!") and appealed to his manager. Fortunately one of the other employees had seen my original debacle, and told the manager ("dio prisa, he visto" or "he was in a rush, I saw") and I was permitted to enter the stadium. Crisis averted, although I couldn't help but wonder what they'd do in the US.
The game itself was very exciting, with a high score of 5-2 in favor of Barcelona over Getafe, a team from near Madrid. We had seats in the first row of the highest section, behind the goal that Barca was shooting on. I don't really know much about soccer, so I couldn't really tell you the details of any exciting plays, but suffice it to say, it was exciting. What was also exciting, however, was when I realized that the person sitting right behind me (in a 100,000 seat stadium) was Jamie Brod, a very close friend of two of my camp friends. We'd met years earlier at NFTY events, and you can imagine my surprise when I saw her right behind me. She, of course, has been studying in Barcelona since January, in the same building that I have my classes in. So we took a picture of us together, and now I'm just waiting for her to tag me on facebook.
At halftime we moved over to the other side and lower, into a rowdier and more crowded section. This is where I learned a few of their cheers, which mostly aren't more complicated than "Barca, Barca, Barrrrrca", and also increased my profanity vocabulary. Most of what was said that I could pick up was along the lines of "cabrón, maricón, and puta"; which if you don't know what they mean, your life is none the worse.
Thursday night, we had a little all-male dinner party, that included four of us from the program, one of Scott's friends from school who was in town, and two of my grade school friends, Sean Comroe and Zach Kramer. I don't think I'd seen Zach since about 8th grade, the last time we went to school together, which is somewhat surprising considering he lives in my neighborhood. But they're both studying here, and are leaving with the rest of the semester kids in about a week. It was nice to catch up; hearing about who has changed, who hasn't, and who got knocked up (no one I really knew that well).
Tomorrow morning David and I fly to Morocco. We tried to get a free place to stay by using this website called CouchSurfing, which didn't exactly work. If you're not familiar with the site, people post profiles and their ability to have travelers crash on their couch. Neither of the two guys we messaged were able to host us (or thought we looked sketchy and opted not to), but we did find a Stanford alum in Marrakech who posts his hosting availability as "coffee or a drink". He wrote back with his cell phone number, so hopefully we'll meet up with him upon our arrival tomorrow to get our bearings on the city.
Wow, almost like real school!
Thinking that after spending two weeks in the city, we ought to actually take a tour, last Monday we jumped on the FatTire bike tour. Although marketed as a 4-hour tour, it is really a 2-hour tour followed by an hour and a half spent at a beach bar (where the goodies are not free). So while maybe not the best value for the money, it was still good to get a little insight and history on the city. One interesting tidbit is that the only original part of the cathedral from the 15th century is a set of steps, on which Columbus was received by Ferdinand and Isabel after not falling off the edge and being eaten by monsters. Another is that while bull fights were outlawed about 4 years ago, they continue to be held every Sunday in a fairly large stadium.
Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday meant class days, and gosh, it almost feels like I'm going to school. Tuesday at 10am (we're talking early) was our first meeting of International Economics. A three-student, two-professor class, I expected it to be fairly interactive and seminar-like, but in reality we sat in Fernando's office while he lectured at us for two hours. It was an interesting lecture on the origins of cooperation between European nations after World War II, that will eventually lead to the European Union and the euro. Basically what happened, was that Western Europe wanted to strengthen (with the help of the US) so that it wouldn't become communist, and no one was quite sure how much to let Germany handle its own growth. So France and Germany created a joint Coal and Steel Community that would be governed by a semi-autonomous "high authority", thus assuring both strength and oversight. Holland, Belgium, Luxembourg and Italy jumped on the bandwagon as well, so as not to be stomped on for lack of resources, and boom, you've got European cooperation. Hopefully things will get a little more conversational as we get more comfortable in the class, but for now, I'll just keep taking notes.
Spanish class was later that afternoon, and is my only twice-weekly class. I'm in the advanced class with two other kids from my program (again, three students), and we meet from 4-7pm. Our teacher, Julia, is a sprightly late 20-something who speaks a whole slew of languages, but to us, only Spanish. She speaks fast, but she's used to American students, so for the most part I've been able to understand what she's been saying. She is assuming that we've already learned all of the verb tenses, so our lessons have been at a high level and are very practical. We learned how to use the conditional tense to be polite, or give advice, as in "you could do something" is "podrías hacerlo", which isn't quite intuitive because it literally translates to "you would be able to do something". Anyway, you get the idea.
I think I've already posted about Art and Architecture, but it turns out I'm going to have to write a 10-page paper on Joan Miró. Not ideal in the least, but at least the class is graded pass/fail. The good news is that when I present my paper, I get to do it inside the actual Miró museum right here in Barcelona, pointing at the painting that I'm discussing. Kinda cool.
Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday meant class days, and gosh, it almost feels like I'm going to school. Tuesday at 10am (we're talking early) was our first meeting of International Economics. A three-student, two-professor class, I expected it to be fairly interactive and seminar-like, but in reality we sat in Fernando's office while he lectured at us for two hours. It was an interesting lecture on the origins of cooperation between European nations after World War II, that will eventually lead to the European Union and the euro. Basically what happened, was that Western Europe wanted to strengthen (with the help of the US) so that it wouldn't become communist, and no one was quite sure how much to let Germany handle its own growth. So France and Germany created a joint Coal and Steel Community that would be governed by a semi-autonomous "high authority", thus assuring both strength and oversight. Holland, Belgium, Luxembourg and Italy jumped on the bandwagon as well, so as not to be stomped on for lack of resources, and boom, you've got European cooperation. Hopefully things will get a little more conversational as we get more comfortable in the class, but for now, I'll just keep taking notes.
Spanish class was later that afternoon, and is my only twice-weekly class. I'm in the advanced class with two other kids from my program (again, three students), and we meet from 4-7pm. Our teacher, Julia, is a sprightly late 20-something who speaks a whole slew of languages, but to us, only Spanish. She speaks fast, but she's used to American students, so for the most part I've been able to understand what she's been saying. She is assuming that we've already learned all of the verb tenses, so our lessons have been at a high level and are very practical. We learned how to use the conditional tense to be polite, or give advice, as in "you could do something" is "podrías hacerlo", which isn't quite intuitive because it literally translates to "you would be able to do something". Anyway, you get the idea.
I think I've already posted about Art and Architecture, but it turns out I'm going to have to write a 10-page paper on Joan Miró. Not ideal in the least, but at least the class is graded pass/fail. The good news is that when I present my paper, I get to do it inside the actual Miró museum right here in Barcelona, pointing at the painting that I'm discussing. Kinda cool.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
Settling into the rhythm...
After being in Barcelona for 10 days, I've started acclimating towards life here. We finally got our class schedule (and gosh, I've even had one real class!), but it its contained entirely in the afternoon hours of Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. Not too shabby considering this is my "vacation" from Stanford. So, with this abundance of time, we've fallen into a schedule that usually involves waking up at around 1-2pm, never leaving the apartment before 3, walking around or making ourselves occupied for the afternoon hours, eating between 9:30 and 10:30pm, and then going to bars until around 2am. The sun here sets around 9 due to the arbitrary nature of time zones, and that helps our afternoons-only lifestyle.
Food has come to dominate a large portion of our thoughts, conversations, and days. Surprisingly, the three of us in the apartment have made an honorable attempt at domesticity, and have eaten in four nights this week. We've had spaghetti and chicken, lentil stew, fajitas, and tapas, all thanks the presence of three supermarkets contained within our block. One of the markets, "Dia", generally prices its items for less than one euro, making our grocery trips (often four or more in a day) quite cheap. We've come to love our 0.49 euro bottles of red wine, and the 1.80 euro 12-packs of Dia brand lager (5.5%...beat that America). Not to mention 2-foot long baguettes fresh out of the oven for 65 cents.
One thing that we've experienced in this endeavor is the Spanish siesta. With all that clubbing until 6 in the morning, people who actually wake up in the morning need their afternoon breaks. This is true of the supermarket, the cell phone store and the Asian Bazaar two doors down from us. Stores close from around 2pm until about 5pm, but then generally stay open until around 9.
Side note: Time, as in all of the civilized world, is shown here in 24-hour time. It's amazing how much simpler things are when you don't have to ask AM or PM. The metric system, as well...incredible.
Spaniards are a well-dressed people, and if not expensively, at least time-intensively. I get the impression that most guys my age spend at least half an hour making themselves cute, and those are the straight ones. I thought my gaydar would be somewhat off, but in reality the whole spectrum is just shifted about an hour and a half's worth of prep time.
I tried to remedy my vastly under par wardrobe a little bit, and have bought a few shirts and a new pair of shoes. Zara, the Spanish version of H&M, is a pretty cool store with reasonable prices (although that 1.35 exchange rate can sneak up on you). The shoe situation was a little more desperate, because to walk comfortably I had been wearing my ultra white sneakers. Like a shining beacon, they broadcast my status as an American tourist more than anything. So I bought a pair of what believe to be trendy casual shoes: my first new pair in over three years.
Now, you may be wondering more about the actual school portion of this program. I'll be taking three classes; Spanish, International Economics and Modern Spanish Art & Architecture. The latter two will be once a week for about two hours, and all of the classes are only with students from ALBA, my program. The econ class is at a local university, with two professors and three students. Our first meeting took place at the cafeteria, so we could have coffee and the female professor could light up her cigarette. This will be our first full week of classes, including Spanish for which we only took a placement test on Thursday.
Upcoming plans: Wednesday the three of us in the apartment bought tickets to go to an FC Barcelona match as part of the Spanish cup, so we're planning to bring a case and enjoy a crazy crowd of Barcelona's sports fans. Also, Saturday morning David and I are flying to Marrakech for a 48-hour Moroccan adventure. Stay tuned.
Food has come to dominate a large portion of our thoughts, conversations, and days. Surprisingly, the three of us in the apartment have made an honorable attempt at domesticity, and have eaten in four nights this week. We've had spaghetti and chicken, lentil stew, fajitas, and tapas, all thanks the presence of three supermarkets contained within our block. One of the markets, "Dia", generally prices its items for less than one euro, making our grocery trips (often four or more in a day) quite cheap. We've come to love our 0.49 euro bottles of red wine, and the 1.80 euro 12-packs of Dia brand lager (5.5%...beat that America). Not to mention 2-foot long baguettes fresh out of the oven for 65 cents.
One thing that we've experienced in this endeavor is the Spanish siesta. With all that clubbing until 6 in the morning, people who actually wake up in the morning need their afternoon breaks. This is true of the supermarket, the cell phone store and the Asian Bazaar two doors down from us. Stores close from around 2pm until about 5pm, but then generally stay open until around 9.
Side note: Time, as in all of the civilized world, is shown here in 24-hour time. It's amazing how much simpler things are when you don't have to ask AM or PM. The metric system, as well...incredible.
Spaniards are a well-dressed people, and if not expensively, at least time-intensively. I get the impression that most guys my age spend at least half an hour making themselves cute, and those are the straight ones. I thought my gaydar would be somewhat off, but in reality the whole spectrum is just shifted about an hour and a half's worth of prep time.
I tried to remedy my vastly under par wardrobe a little bit, and have bought a few shirts and a new pair of shoes. Zara, the Spanish version of H&M, is a pretty cool store with reasonable prices (although that 1.35 exchange rate can sneak up on you). The shoe situation was a little more desperate, because to walk comfortably I had been wearing my ultra white sneakers. Like a shining beacon, they broadcast my status as an American tourist more than anything. So I bought a pair of what believe to be trendy casual shoes: my first new pair in over three years.
Now, you may be wondering more about the actual school portion of this program. I'll be taking three classes; Spanish, International Economics and Modern Spanish Art & Architecture. The latter two will be once a week for about two hours, and all of the classes are only with students from ALBA, my program. The econ class is at a local university, with two professors and three students. Our first meeting took place at the cafeteria, so we could have coffee and the female professor could light up her cigarette. This will be our first full week of classes, including Spanish for which we only took a placement test on Thursday.
Upcoming plans: Wednesday the three of us in the apartment bought tickets to go to an FC Barcelona match as part of the Spanish cup, so we're planning to bring a case and enjoy a crazy crowd of Barcelona's sports fans. Also, Saturday morning David and I are flying to Marrakech for a 48-hour Moroccan adventure. Stay tuned.
Monday, April 9, 2007
Gaudy Gaudi
Due to the postponement of orientation until Tuesday, Friday through Monday were open to exploration, debauchery, and a fair about of alcohol consumption. Friday night we met up with the other Stanford girls and a few others from the program, and over the weekend we gradually met the rest of the students on the program. There are 13 of us in all, including 4 from Stanford, one from Dartmouth (Scott, my third roommate, who arrived late last night), 6 from Portland State (the school that runs the program), and two from Mercyhurst College in Erie, PA.
The couple who run our program are truly a Jack and Jill of all trades; they run ALBA, they run a travel company that organizes day trips out of the city, and are part owners of a bar in the one of the nightlife areas. They're well-connected to a lot of the tourist-oriented people as well as many locals, and with their help we've found many great bars to try.
Many bars also serve food or tapas, and one such bar we went to serves them almost as a butler would at a cocktail party. When you enter this place, they give you a plate, and then you go around grabbing bread-mounted tapas for your plate. They're all made up of a piece of baguette with meat, cheese or fish on top, and are held together with toothpicks. You can also order glasses and bottles of wine, standing in groups around tall tables or at the stand-up bar. At the end, you hand them your plate and they charge you based on the number of toothpicks you had (assuming none accidentally fell to the floor).
Besides partaking in the multitudinous bars the city has to offer, we've spent some days seeing the more touristy attractions as well. Most notably, we saw two of Antoni Gaudi's projects: the Parc Guell and the Sagrada Familia. The most ridiculous cathedral ever built, La Sagrada Familia remains unfinished even after 100 years of construction. It is the one people refer to as the "drip castle", because of its lack of straight lines and unique architecture. Inside, the columns are tree-like in their conception and geographically complex in their construction, not to mention ten towers, 300 feet tall. Those towers await the addition of eight more towers; the tallest, representing Jesus, is expected to be around 500 feet tall. Gaudi designed the cathedral, and it was essentially all he worked on in the final years leading to his death.
Before building the cathedral, Parc Guell is a collection of Gaudi silliness that makes you feel a bit as though you're traveling through CandyLand. It's a large park on a hill in the northern part of the city that has a view of the city and the sea, and contains many nature-inspired installments including a long "wave" of rock (imagine the view of a surfer riding inside a tube of a wave), intricate houses and other architectural indulgences.
We went from there to a supermarket for 0.79Eur bottles of wine, and then to the apartment of some of the other students a bit farther from the city near the beach. We opened the bottles, spent some time sitting on the beach (and freezing, it gets cold at night especially on the water), before heading back to make some dinner.
Around this time Scott, our final roommate, finally arrived. He had a tumultuous trek from Rome completing his 3-week European adventure and slept for about the next 16 hours.
On Tuesday we finally had orientation, which basically consisted of a 1-hour conversation followed by a 2-hour lunch. The directors gave us a handout including lots of tips on making the most of time in Barcelona, in addition to our cell phones. Turns out classes are going to only be on Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday, and all after 1pm. Not too shabby. I'm taking Spanish for 3 hours twice a week, in addition to Modern Art and Architecture in Spain and International Economics. The classes are only with the kids on our program, so they range in size from 3 to 10 students. The Econ class is being taught at a local university (as opposed to the International House, where the ALBA classroom is), so that should be interesting.
With all that free time, we're already starting to think about travel. My roommate, David, and I are considering a Moroccan adventure for next weekend, with roundtrip flights around 90Eur. Should be quite a trip.
The couple who run our program are truly a Jack and Jill of all trades; they run ALBA, they run a travel company that organizes day trips out of the city, and are part owners of a bar in the one of the nightlife areas. They're well-connected to a lot of the tourist-oriented people as well as many locals, and with their help we've found many great bars to try.
Many bars also serve food or tapas, and one such bar we went to serves them almost as a butler would at a cocktail party. When you enter this place, they give you a plate, and then you go around grabbing bread-mounted tapas for your plate. They're all made up of a piece of baguette with meat, cheese or fish on top, and are held together with toothpicks. You can also order glasses and bottles of wine, standing in groups around tall tables or at the stand-up bar. At the end, you hand them your plate and they charge you based on the number of toothpicks you had (assuming none accidentally fell to the floor).
Besides partaking in the multitudinous bars the city has to offer, we've spent some days seeing the more touristy attractions as well. Most notably, we saw two of Antoni Gaudi's projects: the Parc Guell and the Sagrada Familia. The most ridiculous cathedral ever built, La Sagrada Familia remains unfinished even after 100 years of construction. It is the one people refer to as the "drip castle", because of its lack of straight lines and unique architecture. Inside, the columns are tree-like in their conception and geographically complex in their construction, not to mention ten towers, 300 feet tall. Those towers await the addition of eight more towers; the tallest, representing Jesus, is expected to be around 500 feet tall. Gaudi designed the cathedral, and it was essentially all he worked on in the final years leading to his death.
Before building the cathedral, Parc Guell is a collection of Gaudi silliness that makes you feel a bit as though you're traveling through CandyLand. It's a large park on a hill in the northern part of the city that has a view of the city and the sea, and contains many nature-inspired installments including a long "wave" of rock (imagine the view of a surfer riding inside a tube of a wave), intricate houses and other architectural indulgences.
We went from there to a supermarket for 0.79Eur bottles of wine, and then to the apartment of some of the other students a bit farther from the city near the beach. We opened the bottles, spent some time sitting on the beach (and freezing, it gets cold at night especially on the water), before heading back to make some dinner.
Around this time Scott, our final roommate, finally arrived. He had a tumultuous trek from Rome completing his 3-week European adventure and slept for about the next 16 hours.
On Tuesday we finally had orientation, which basically consisted of a 1-hour conversation followed by a 2-hour lunch. The directors gave us a handout including lots of tips on making the most of time in Barcelona, in addition to our cell phones. Turns out classes are going to only be on Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday, and all after 1pm. Not too shabby. I'm taking Spanish for 3 hours twice a week, in addition to Modern Art and Architecture in Spain and International Economics. The classes are only with the kids on our program, so they range in size from 3 to 10 students. The Econ class is being taught at a local university (as opposed to the International House, where the ALBA classroom is), so that should be interesting.
With all that free time, we're already starting to think about travel. My roommate, David, and I are considering a Moroccan adventure for next weekend, with roundtrip flights around 90Eur. Should be quite a trip.
Sunday, April 8, 2007
Dónde está la lavandería?
I awoke Friday morning (at 11:30am) to a phone call from Tracy, one of the co-directors of the program, making sure that I was around so that I could let David, my roommate, in when he got here. Good thing she called ten minutes before he arrived, otherwise, who knows, I may have actually been out of the apartment. Orientation was pushed back until Tuesday, so we're all cellphone-less until then, but alas, I was home, and David arrived.
He had just taken a train in from Southern France, where he had been traveling for about a week, and hadn't slept much on the train. He pushed though however, and we left together for our day of exploration.
The reason that orientation was pushed back (and the reason the program is starting a week later than Stanford) is that Spaniards take their Easter seriously. Walking around on (Good) Friday, nearly everything in our residential neighborhood was closed. This posed a problem, seeing as we had yet to buy food for our apartment and hadn't eaten in about 12 hours. So we walked to the touristy areas, got some food, and then, well, kept walking.
We walked for about four hours total, seeing the city from above on Mont Juic (actually "Mountain of the Jews") and walking through much of Beli Goti (Gothic Neighborhood) and some of the other older sections of town. Old Barcelona is a circle of narrow, European streets and alleys and tons of cool bars, restaurants, and, you guessed it, cathedrals that seem to pop up all around. Outside of the old city, including where we live, feels much more modern with grid-based streets, apartment buildings that are all remarkably the same height (about 7 stories), and four grocery stores per block.
It's an easy city to navigate, and with the exception of my one Metro snafu on Thursday night, I've been able to get around the city on foot very easily. With two more days of this long Easter weekend in which everything is closed, we may need to become more creative in how we spend our time, but with each moment I feel more and more comfortable with the city.
He had just taken a train in from Southern France, where he had been traveling for about a week, and hadn't slept much on the train. He pushed though however, and we left together for our day of exploration.
The reason that orientation was pushed back (and the reason the program is starting a week later than Stanford) is that Spaniards take their Easter seriously. Walking around on (Good) Friday, nearly everything in our residential neighborhood was closed. This posed a problem, seeing as we had yet to buy food for our apartment and hadn't eaten in about 12 hours. So we walked to the touristy areas, got some food, and then, well, kept walking.
We walked for about four hours total, seeing the city from above on Mont Juic (actually "Mountain of the Jews") and walking through much of Beli Goti (Gothic Neighborhood) and some of the other older sections of town. Old Barcelona is a circle of narrow, European streets and alleys and tons of cool bars, restaurants, and, you guessed it, cathedrals that seem to pop up all around. Outside of the old city, including where we live, feels much more modern with grid-based streets, apartment buildings that are all remarkably the same height (about 7 stories), and four grocery stores per block.
It's an easy city to navigate, and with the exception of my one Metro snafu on Thursday night, I've been able to get around the city on foot very easily. With two more days of this long Easter weekend in which everything is closed, we may need to become more creative in how we spend our time, but with each moment I feel more and more comfortable with the city.
Saturday, April 7, 2007
The bilingual city
After all of the time spent in the Bologna Airport (including an extra two hours due to a bird having flown into the engine on the previous flight) MyAir flight 4510 actually left Italy and brought be to Barcelona. Felipe, the transfers guy, was there with a little sign for me, and drove me into town and to my new apartment.
This apartment (the third one they had picked for us after rejecting 1 & 2) is just north of the city center in a residential area. Felipe let me in, gave me the key, and then politely excused himself. It was at this point that I explored my new apartment, quickly finding 6 socks, 3 eggs, 1 pair of aviator sunglasses and a wet load of laundry in the washing machine. Apparently someone had "just moved out", and no one had taken the time to make sure they had completely moved out, but oh well. The apartment itself is nice, with four bedrooms (for three of us) of varying sizes, two bathrooms, a narrow kitchen stocked with cookware and dishes, blankets, sheets and towels all over the place. I wasn't so sure if the linens were clean, but hey, it was already 8pm, and I had other adventures to tend to.
Earlier, in my hours at the Bologna airport, I had made plans with Jenny to meet her, and her mom, sister, and sister's boyfriend at a Japanese restaurant called Shoko, on the Mediterranean. While it only would have been a 25-minute or so walk, I decided not to risk getting lost and take the well-reputed Barcelona Metro down to the area. So without a detailed map, I made my way to the nearest Metro stop, Arc d'Triumf. I bought a 10-trip, but had a bit of trouble figuring out exactly which platform I was supposed to go to.
Oh what the hell, I thought, and walked on the first train that arrived. It was really nice, with chairs for everyone, and felt much more like a train than a subway. Well, five minutes later at the next stop when I saw that we were quite far from Arc d'Triumf, I realized that this was indeed a commuter line, got off, walked across the platform, and went one stop back.
Try two. I found the L1 Metro platform (as opposed to the R4 regional one) and had to choose which direction to go. I was fairly confident I had chosen wisely, but to avoid another episode of going one stop in the wrong direction, I decided to ask, in broken Spanish, a group of guys on the subway what the next stop was. Before they could figure out what I was asking, the door closed, slamming me in the face, and setting the 16-year olds into a fit of laughter as the train sped off. Barcelona 2, Dan 0.
Fortunately subways come frequently, and by the time the next one came two minutes and 38 seconds later (the signs actually count down the seconds until the next train, pretty cool), I had assured myself I was going the right direction and got on. In true Zeehandelaar style (a theme?) I got to the restaurant minutes before the Caines did. And they took a taxi.
This apartment (the third one they had picked for us after rejecting 1 & 2) is just north of the city center in a residential area. Felipe let me in, gave me the key, and then politely excused himself. It was at this point that I explored my new apartment, quickly finding 6 socks, 3 eggs, 1 pair of aviator sunglasses and a wet load of laundry in the washing machine. Apparently someone had "just moved out", and no one had taken the time to make sure they had completely moved out, but oh well. The apartment itself is nice, with four bedrooms (for three of us) of varying sizes, two bathrooms, a narrow kitchen stocked with cookware and dishes, blankets, sheets and towels all over the place. I wasn't so sure if the linens were clean, but hey, it was already 8pm, and I had other adventures to tend to.
Earlier, in my hours at the Bologna airport, I had made plans with Jenny to meet her, and her mom, sister, and sister's boyfriend at a Japanese restaurant called Shoko, on the Mediterranean. While it only would have been a 25-minute or so walk, I decided not to risk getting lost and take the well-reputed Barcelona Metro down to the area. So without a detailed map, I made my way to the nearest Metro stop, Arc d'Triumf. I bought a 10-trip, but had a bit of trouble figuring out exactly which platform I was supposed to go to.
Oh what the hell, I thought, and walked on the first train that arrived. It was really nice, with chairs for everyone, and felt much more like a train than a subway. Well, five minutes later at the next stop when I saw that we were quite far from Arc d'Triumf, I realized that this was indeed a commuter line, got off, walked across the platform, and went one stop back.
Try two. I found the L1 Metro platform (as opposed to the R4 regional one) and had to choose which direction to go. I was fairly confident I had chosen wisely, but to avoid another episode of going one stop in the wrong direction, I decided to ask, in broken Spanish, a group of guys on the subway what the next stop was. Before they could figure out what I was asking, the door closed, slamming me in the face, and setting the 16-year olds into a fit of laughter as the train sped off. Barcelona 2, Dan 0.
Fortunately subways come frequently, and by the time the next one came two minutes and 38 seconds later (the signs actually count down the seconds until the next train, pretty cool), I had assured myself I was going the right direction and got on. In true Zeehandelaar style (a theme?) I got to the restaurant minutes before the Caines did. And they took a taxi.
Thursday, April 5, 2007
Scuzzi, mi scuzzi!
It was on the train to Bologna where I had my first real EuroTrip moment. I'm in this little cabin with 6 seats, flanked by four older Germans who were in for the long haul overnight to Munchen. Our communication was less than passable, but we smiled and said "oy" when I put up my heavy suitcase and they were very impressed with my iPod shuffle that fits in my mouth. The best part, however, was when the 70-year old German man to my left decided it was time to fall asleep and rest his head on my shoulder. That, combined with a 40-minute delay on a 1-hour train made the trip interesting, but hey, I'm in Europe. Take a rest, and sleep on your neighbor.
It was great seeing Jess, my long lost wife who I hadn't seen since the past summer. She's having a great time in Bologna (a total college town: 100,000 students out of 400,000 residents) and living with three Italians in a nice flat.
She and I went around the markets and bought supplies for our impromptu Passover Seder, which she was hosting in her apartment for us and three of her friends. We then spent the afternoon cooking: beef goulash, tsimmes, stewed artichokes, charosis, hard boiled eggs, salt water, the works. Her friends brought the wine (6 bottles for the 5 of us), and we got started around 7pm. Jess compiled her own Haggadah, which was mostly a compilation of a basic family Haggadah and the Zeehandelaar family Haggadah. She also wrote a fantastic dramatic reading-style rendition of the story of the exodus which we performed with joy. I'll post the Haggadah in a few days when she sends me the PDF.
Needless to say, 4+ cups of wine (plus Elijah's, which I sneaked while the goyish guests opened the front door) we were quite spent, and ended up not leaving the apartment but rather watching YouTube videos that they hadn't seen since they havent been in the states. (Search "Kelly Shoes", "Tony vs Paul", and "Box in a Box" into youtube search).
Over the next couple of days, I was able to to again see most of Bologna, which is also a pretty walkable city. Main highlights are the central Piazza, with two towers (one leans, one you can climb), plus the university area and a few museums. It was my first time walking around a city alone where I didn't know the language (while Jess was in class), and while interesting, I found myself looking for everyone who looked American. I guess its not so easy to feel comfortable in a foreign city.
My time in Bologna was competed with two adventures. Last night, we were all planning (as in about 8 of Jess's friends from the program) to go to this huge gay club which apparently has quite the party on Wednesdays. The only problem is that you need a "Tessaro" to get in, basically a club membership, which can only be purchased one of two ways: either at this club, with the caveat that it can't be used for 24 hours, or at the sibling club completely on the other side of the city that could be used that night. Begging in Italian as she may, Jess could not convince the people to sell her a pass that would let her in immediately, so we schlepped across the entire city to buy this stupid pass. We made good time, and buses worked well, so we were back at the club by the time the others arrived at around 12:30am. It was truly quite the party, very European (i suppose?) and left around 3am for our 40-minute walk home. Quite an adventure.
The other slight obstacle to my plans came today, when I arrived at the airport at 9am for my 11am flight. MyAir, it seems, decided to reschedule the flight for 4pm, yet decided that it needn't notify the 150 people taking the flight. However, in true Zeehandelaar fashion, when life gave me lemons, I paid 20Eur to sit in the club with free snacks, couches, internet, and relative peace from the rest of the angsty travelers. So I've been able to pass the time fairly easily, catching up with the late owls in California (-9 hours) and even one friend in Beijing. Not to mention writing this blog post.
Italy, it seems, is a place that has its ways. People only drink coffee in espresso shots, and certain ways at certain times of the day. People dress to show their class, and therefore dress well. But it's a classy place, and if I spoke Italian I would probably find this a nice place to be. I'm very ready, though, to get on this damned plane to Spain.
It was great seeing Jess, my long lost wife who I hadn't seen since the past summer. She's having a great time in Bologna (a total college town: 100,000 students out of 400,000 residents) and living with three Italians in a nice flat.
She and I went around the markets and bought supplies for our impromptu Passover Seder, which she was hosting in her apartment for us and three of her friends. We then spent the afternoon cooking: beef goulash, tsimmes, stewed artichokes, charosis, hard boiled eggs, salt water, the works. Her friends brought the wine (6 bottles for the 5 of us), and we got started around 7pm. Jess compiled her own Haggadah, which was mostly a compilation of a basic family Haggadah and the Zeehandelaar family Haggadah. She also wrote a fantastic dramatic reading-style rendition of the story of the exodus which we performed with joy. I'll post the Haggadah in a few days when she sends me the PDF.
Needless to say, 4+ cups of wine (plus Elijah's, which I sneaked while the goyish guests opened the front door) we were quite spent, and ended up not leaving the apartment but rather watching YouTube videos that they hadn't seen since they havent been in the states. (Search "Kelly Shoes", "Tony vs Paul", and "Box in a Box" into youtube search).
Over the next couple of days, I was able to to again see most of Bologna, which is also a pretty walkable city. Main highlights are the central Piazza, with two towers (one leans, one you can climb), plus the university area and a few museums. It was my first time walking around a city alone where I didn't know the language (while Jess was in class), and while interesting, I found myself looking for everyone who looked American. I guess its not so easy to feel comfortable in a foreign city.
My time in Bologna was competed with two adventures. Last night, we were all planning (as in about 8 of Jess's friends from the program) to go to this huge gay club which apparently has quite the party on Wednesdays. The only problem is that you need a "Tessaro" to get in, basically a club membership, which can only be purchased one of two ways: either at this club, with the caveat that it can't be used for 24 hours, or at the sibling club completely on the other side of the city that could be used that night. Begging in Italian as she may, Jess could not convince the people to sell her a pass that would let her in immediately, so we schlepped across the entire city to buy this stupid pass. We made good time, and buses worked well, so we were back at the club by the time the others arrived at around 12:30am. It was truly quite the party, very European (i suppose?) and left around 3am for our 40-minute walk home. Quite an adventure.
The other slight obstacle to my plans came today, when I arrived at the airport at 9am for my 11am flight. MyAir, it seems, decided to reschedule the flight for 4pm, yet decided that it needn't notify the 150 people taking the flight. However, in true Zeehandelaar fashion, when life gave me lemons, I paid 20Eur to sit in the club with free snacks, couches, internet, and relative peace from the rest of the angsty travelers. So I've been able to pass the time fairly easily, catching up with the late owls in California (-9 hours) and even one friend in Beijing. Not to mention writing this blog post.
Italy, it seems, is a place that has its ways. People only drink coffee in espresso shots, and certain ways at certain times of the day. People dress to show their class, and therefore dress well. But it's a classy place, and if I spoke Italian I would probably find this a nice place to be. I'm very ready, though, to get on this damned plane to Spain.
Monday, April 2, 2007
Ciao, bella!
In London, everyone speaks English. Much to my surprise, however, everyone in Florence does as well. No, not because they learn it in school, not because they want to sell things, but because they are American. Florence was overrun with tourists, and at times it appeared as though no one in sight was actually Italian.
There's good reason for this, as Florence is an interesting city. Basically the only location in which the entire Renaissance took place, the art here is quite something. I spent the weekend getting to know the small city, where streets are roughly wide enough for two Smart Cars, and the whole city is only a 30-minute walk. Mallory was nice enough to show me around, and I got to see everything with the benefit of a seasoned Florentine.
The David, by Michelangelo, does not disappoint. It is situated in what is essentially its own museum (the Academia) that costs as much as the other art museum containing everything else, but is very impressive. They have a 3-d visualization of the statue done by Stanford, so we spurt of pride 5,000 miles from our alma mater.
I met two guys in my hostel from BU who ended up knowing Jonah from camp. We ended up hanging out a bit, and went out together to some bars on Saturday night.
Sunday was more walking, including the gardens of the Medici family. If you didn't know, the Medici family essentially owned Florence (and most of Italy and the Vatican) from about 1400-1700. They became Popes, commissioned tons of art (including a lot of the Renaissance), and were, understandably, bankers. For that reason, they also had a (mostly) favorable relationship with the Jews, who naturally had a Jewish quarter and seemed to function for the most part well in Florence. We checked out the synagogue, as well, which was quite beautiful. There, of course, I ran into a middle-aged Jewish couple from Westchester who were just thrilled that I was bringing my shiksa friend to the Jewish museum.
Overall, I felt like Florence was a pretty manageable and easily navigable city where basically anyone you interact with with speak English. After dinner, it was off to the train station for the late night train to Bologna.
There's good reason for this, as Florence is an interesting city. Basically the only location in which the entire Renaissance took place, the art here is quite something. I spent the weekend getting to know the small city, where streets are roughly wide enough for two Smart Cars, and the whole city is only a 30-minute walk. Mallory was nice enough to show me around, and I got to see everything with the benefit of a seasoned Florentine.
The David, by Michelangelo, does not disappoint. It is situated in what is essentially its own museum (the Academia) that costs as much as the other art museum containing everything else, but is very impressive. They have a 3-d visualization of the statue done by Stanford, so we spurt of pride 5,000 miles from our alma mater.
I met two guys in my hostel from BU who ended up knowing Jonah from camp. We ended up hanging out a bit, and went out together to some bars on Saturday night.
Sunday was more walking, including the gardens of the Medici family. If you didn't know, the Medici family essentially owned Florence (and most of Italy and the Vatican) from about 1400-1700. They became Popes, commissioned tons of art (including a lot of the Renaissance), and were, understandably, bankers. For that reason, they also had a (mostly) favorable relationship with the Jews, who naturally had a Jewish quarter and seemed to function for the most part well in Florence. We checked out the synagogue, as well, which was quite beautiful. There, of course, I ran into a middle-aged Jewish couple from Westchester who were just thrilled that I was bringing my shiksa friend to the Jewish museum.
Overall, I felt like Florence was a pretty manageable and easily navigable city where basically anyone you interact with with speak English. After dinner, it was off to the train station for the late night train to Bologna.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)