Euskara: the Mysterious, and Unheard Language

Waking up early after our nearly devastatingly large meal at Cal Pep, we boarded a plane to nearby Spanish province of Euskadi, known in Spanish as the Pais Vasco and in English as the Basque Country. Well known due to the doings of an extremist Basque-independence terrorist group, ETA, the Basque Country has a bad rap throughout Spain as wackos who gun down hapless Madrid subway riders. On top of this, only a day before our trip, ETA had renounced a ceasefire that had lasted over a year, and pledged a continuation of violence.

We landed in Bilbao, the major city of the province at around 2pm, and looked for where to catch the bus to San Sebastian, the coastal town about 100km away. Upon leafing through Bilbao tourism materials, we noticed that practically every museum (Guggenheim included) was closed on Mondays. So rather than skipping town immediately to return for a full day Monday, as we had planned, we delayed our departure and set out on the town.

The Guggenheim didn't disappoint, and with its fish scale exterior and drug-inspired geometry it impressed us greatly. Many say the art inside doesn't match the building, but the current exhibition of the artist Anselm Kiefer was quite interesting to see. Unmatched was the walk-through exhibit of ellipses, comprised of spherical and toroidal walls. Maybe you have to see it to know what I mean.

San Sebastian, where we spent both of our two nights, was basically a Spanish vacation town and has been for its history. Nestled perfectly on the mouth of a bay with dramatic mountains draping all sides, the picture-perfect location was a natural summer destination. We walked up one of the mountains and took the funicular train up the other, both yielding great views of the city. We also walked much of the cities 3km of coast and through the old town to get a feel for the town.

The old town of San Sebastian is said to have the highest concentration of bar space anywhere in Europe, and it does seem like each storefront is another. We spent our first night wandering in and out of bars, sampling the myriad pinxtos, the bread-mounted tapas of endless variety of seafood and pork. Tapas supposedly originated in the Basque Country, and you couldn't go into a bar without seeing plates of their offerings proudly displayed for you just to grab. The USDA would probably have a field day.

Our second night, Sunday, we decided to try a different tradition: a cidreria. Basically a large tavern with 10ft x 10ft barrels of cider, the cidreria was a way to get out of the city and hopefully see a bit more of Basque culture. We had missed the memo, however, and as it turned out, only about eight other customers were there in the dining room that must have sat 200. Undeterred, we poured ourselves cider from the barrels in the traditional long distance stream from a tiny spout. True to the image of the liquid leaving the barrel, the cider was terrible, and we immediately replaced it with a bottle of Txakolin, a slightly bubbly white wine that everyone else seemed to be drinking. This is also poured from a height (to enliven bubbles), but we basically just spilled it all on the floor.

After spending almost three full days in the Basque Country, it was only during an announcement back at the Bilbao airport that I heard for Basque spoken for the first time. It is written on signs everywhere (alongside, and often following, Spanish), but it seemed that every conversation I overheard--shopkeepers, garbage men, hostel managers, cops, people at bars--was in Spanish. Makes you wonder how much the majority of the people in the province really care about independence from Spain.

Best Meal Ever.

On Friday night, after a month of trying to find a time to go, Dave and I set out to Cal Pep, Barcelona's best tapas bar and the highlight of every visitor's guide. We walked into the small, unassuming restaurant filled with people behind those seated at the bar, and took stock. Apparently, people wait upwards of an hour in line before they are seated to eat, and those eating are in no rush to leave. So we teetered about whether or not to stay, and at the end, inertia won out.

An hour and fifteen minutes and three glasses of wine later, the bartender/waiter motioned us over to two of the seats. We had previously taken not that most people didn't order with a menu, so we observed anxiously at which plates we wanted. When the waiter came over, before we could open our mouths, he proceeded to tell us our order. We said sure, added one or two of our own observations, and then sat.

At Cap Pep one sees the beauty of tapas. Within a minute we had pan con tomate and our first plate, a bowl of clams. Just as we finished the clams came a plate of raw tuna, which was excellent, followed immediately by a spanish tortilla. Tortilla, an omlette thick with potato slices, is normally a peasant food; yet this was spiced with bacon and was absolutely incredible. After the tortilla came mixed fried seafood, which included some less than identifiable items, and some tiny fish in their entirety. Next was the squid, bathed in a broth (of their own ink?) and boiled the perfect amount of time as to have impeccable texture.

At this point there was a pause in the continuous flow of plates, and we thought that we had exhausted our order. We had seen others eat a plate of fillet mignon, and decided to conclude with that. As we were about to order, the waiter brought us a plate of sausage with kidney beans drizzled in a port wine reduction, and a bit of confusion ensued in which we almost refused the sausage to order the steak. Glad we didn't, the sausage with beans and sauce was both sweet at incredibly tender, arguably my favorite plate so far and I didn't even start eating sausage until Berlin.

As if that wasn't enough, the waiter replaced our sausage plate with the steak we thought we didn't order. Oh well, we thought, and dived in even though our stomachs were rapidly approaching rupture. It was cooked perfectly, and melted in our mouths as would a top steak from Capital Grille.

We paid the check (which was significantly, and quite deservingly, more than we had anticipated coming in), and as if we were still lacking in food or drink, the waiter brought us a chupito to wash down our food. It is typical in Catalunya to give a free shot of liqueur after a meal in a restaurant, and seeing as the restaurant was about to close, they weren't in a rush to turn our seats. While in the bathroom, the waiter replaced the first round with a second, at which point I nearly burst out of my belt. The ensuing physical devastation and hefty bill were more than overcome by how excellent each course had been, and we left convinced that we would never have a better meal. The variety, preparation, atmosphere, and Catalan tradition at Cal Pep is not to be beat.

Placa Ruis i Taulet

Living for the last month in Gracia, I've come to appreciate the charm of this neighborhood and character of its central feature, Placa Ruis i Taulet. Originally a town in its own right until accession by the City of Barcelona in 1897, Gracia is a town of narrow, shop-lined streets, apartments with wet laundry hanging out the windows, and bustling squares.

Just a half a block above our apartment is Gracia's most important square, Placa Ruis i Taulet, home to both the Gracia Ajuntament (Town Hall) and a 30-meter clock tower dead in the center. More importantly, it seems as though the entire town of Gracia, a microcosm in and of itself with people from all walks of life, converges on this town for summer evenings and weekends.

Cafes line two of the sides of the square, and rarely can I find a seat at one of their outdoor tables. Benches form the border of the rectangle where the cafe tables do not, and they are also generally full. Often I'll spend an hour or two on one of these benches (which I am doubtless sharing), half reading and half people-watching.

The best people-watching is of the kids. Soccer is the pastime of choice, and the most popular game involves a shootout with one side of the clock-tower as a goal. The 13-year old boys like to act tough and often show off their skills, and the 13-year old girls pretend not to notice. Just next to them will be a 5-year old with his own soccer ball, somewhat aloof to the older kids and often bumbling through their game by accident. Then I'll see a young father traversing the square with his daughter on her new two-wheeler, juxtaposed with a posse of 20-something dredlocked hippies on a bench smoking hand-rolled cigarettes likely laced with hashish. The next bench will have an elderly couple, no longer really saying anything to one another but still enjoying one another's company.

The square has also been home to various notable events. I've seen a far-left wing rally for the release from prison of a (violent) protester, a political rally for one of the Catalan independence parties before last Sunday's elections, a spontaneous circular dance in which all the town's old people came out and instinctively knew what to do, and a festival of Castellers, where teams of this crazy activity were present from three neighboring towns. Castellers are human pyramids, with about 20 burly guys on the bottom and one very brave 7-year old girl climbing her way up six or seven layers of standing humans. It was fantastic to watch, and I would post the video except I held my digital camera sideways and apparently it's impossible to rotate an .mpg video. Oh well.

I don't feel like dancing!

Last week brought with it hordes of Stanford students. Not just one or two, but twenty. Three of Sinsky's friends studying in Oxford came from Tuesday-Saturday, and the Paris program organized a trip for them to come to Barcelona as well. That means two of my former roomies, David (#2) and Lindsey, were in for the weekend. And after two weekends out of town, we were anxious to make a splash back into the notorious Barcelona nightlife.

Thursday night was slightly less than successful. Sinsky, his roommate from Stanford, Noah, Tara, Divya and I made dinner (which was incredible Mexican food), and attempted to go out to a dance club. We'd heard of a few, and tried one that had no cover. When they wouldn't let Dave in on account of his sandals, we walked to find another, and ended up at the Salsa Club. Not only were we the only non-locals here, but also the only non-professional internationally renowned salsa dancers. Every pair (and everyone had a pair) was dancing like it was a choreographed movie, and we just stood on the side as an awkward, odd-numbered group of dancing-challenged Caucasians.

Friday night was more successful however, and after a delicious dinner with the Oxford crowd and David (#3, the local), Lindsey and David (#2) met us in the born for some chupitos. Four rounds later, affectionately topped off with a fifth on the house, we piled into cabs with the famed Barcelona 2:30am destination: Razzmatazz. Razzmatazz is the largest club in Barcelona, with five dance floors each blasting different styles of music. We tore the house down, and danced the night away until the metro reopened at 5am. The evening was gloriously documented in photographs that will undoubtedly prevent all of us from ever achieving public office. Unbelievably, all nine of us somehow managed to reconvene and leave together.

They say (ok, we say) that clubs are only as fun as the group that you go with, so there will probably not be another venture out into the nocturnal scene of Barcelona nearly as fun. But hey, it was one heck of a night.

The Best Wurst City

A week and a half ago, as if we hadn't spent enough weekends in a row traveling, I headed off to Berlin with Sinsky. We flew EasyJet, my first time on the ubiquitous airline of Europe, and landed at Berlin's Schoenefeld Airport. An easy train trip to the city, and bam, we're at our hostel right off of Warshaurer Strasse, in the former East Berlin.

Having been prepared by excellent advice from friends who had previously studied in/traveled to Berlin, we set off on our weekend with a list of things to accomplish: be they climb the tower of the Reichstag, see the history museum, eat a curry wurst (there's a story there, just wait), and drink good German beer.

We ended up doing almost everything we had hoped to do, starting with seeing the Berlin Wall at the East Side Gallery. It's a pretty cool sight--a 1km length of wall right on the river now devoted to graffiti art and expression. We found a little hang out area behind the wall where we bought a pint and my furst bratwurst. It was mainly the artist types hanging out, and we kind of stood out since we were neither making out nor nursing our illegitimate baby.

Of the other tourist sights, the Reichstag was a highlight, with a great view of the whole city from the modern glass dome of the German Parliament Building. The Jewish History Museum and the German History Museum were both excellent, as well. The Jewish Museum had a few well-done artistic spaces that try to express the feelings about the tragic past. One, a 30-meter tall empty concrete tower with just a slit of light entering through the roof was an interesting experience. The German History Museum was also phenomenal. So good, in fact, we went twice. The first time we went we only made it around the first floor, which depicts events after the First World War. The exhibit on the depression, growth of the Nazi party, road to war, the Holocaust, the Soviet occupation and life under communism were all absolutely fascinating. My main response to the treatment of the Holocaust was that it was very moving, although alienated "the Germans" as if they were a different nation, much as we would imagine seeing in Washington, DC.

My parents were convinced that I would feel uncomfortable in Germany, surrounded by a language that from a young age has been associated with the Holocaust. I actually found this to not be the case whatsoever, and within a short time had come to take a liking to the city of Berlin its people, and after another day, even the language (some Yiddish mis-translations notwithstanding).

In typical Dan-hates-feeling-like-a-tourist-style, we went on Saturday afternoon to a CouchSurfing.net meetup at a park, and sat on blankets with the twenty or so others, some locals, some ex-pats, and other travelers from mostly English-speaking countries. There we met Nick, who, lo and behold, was staying in our same hostel in the room next to ours. We ended up spending most of the next two days with him.

We checked out some bars in the nightlife areas that had been recommended to us, and although we found some winners, we had a constant sensation of being almost at the right street, but not quite. Perhaps we were really just on the wrong block, or maybe Berlin just needs another year or two before it is truly a great bar city. We went to one club on Saturday night, on the 12th floor, and danced the night away to German electro music. Quite a sight.

On Sunday we met up with another CouchSurfer, Bastian, from northwest Germany. He was a great guy, and we had a good dinner followed by a few enjoyable hours sipping beers on the side of the river. There were lots of parks in the city and no shortage of trees, and it really made the city feel quaint. Both East- and West-Berlin had this phenomenon, and indeed, we hardly noticed much difference between the two.

Our flight Monday departed at 1:50pm, and having printed our boarding passes already, we decided to take our time after the History Museum and walk along the river to the new main train station. A bit out of our way, the train to the airport passed through there as well by our hostel, and Kalani had recommended the walk. We got to the sprawling, $4 billion station at 12:15pm, and saw that the next S9 to Shoenefeld left at 12:21. However, we were hungry and had yet to taste a currywurst, which is apparently the street food of choice. The fooderies in the station were all to corporate for this vender-type food, but across the street a stand caught my eye. In a moment of truth, Sinsky decided that we're going for it, so naturally we missed the train. Upon returning to the station, we saw that the next train arrived at 12:41pm. Now six stops further from the airport than our hostel, we had no real idea how long the train would take, and if you know me, you can imagine how I felt. If you know my dad, you know he would have had a pulmonary embolism right there. Anyway, the train arrived at the airport at 1:26pm, and we made our flight with 10 minutes to spare. Next time, though, I'm packing Valium.

Zeehandellampoons's European Vacation

Just as Mallory and Molly were leaving, my mom, dad and sister were all en route to Barcelona for a week of European family fun. Air travel nightmares notwithstanding, we were all united by Monday and had three days to spend in Barcelona.

Although I was anxious to show them my life here in Barcelona, we spent our first day on a wine tour outside of the city in a village about an hour away. Charles, the director of my program, also happens to run a day-trip company, and was our guide for the day. The tour was really interesting, and we learned all about corking cava (Catalan champagne). The key to bottling the cava is maintaining the bottle inverted with the temporary cap, and then very quickly popping the cap (causing a familiar explosion) and stopping the liquid from escaping with a finger. This process removes the yeast (nicknamed "la madre" or "mother"), and along with it almost a full glass's worth of cava escapes within the first second. We all were relatively successful at not losing too much, although my mom accidentally righted the bottle before letting out the mother and mixed it back in, requiring another two weeks of inversion to let it settle out. Also, interestingly, those mushroom-shaped champagne corks actually begin their lives as perfect cylinders. Crazy.

The next few days consisted of my doing my best to show them the city's finest, including purchasing a new wardrobe at the giant Zara (one of three on the same street), seeing the entire city from the beautiful vista of MontJuic, and having lunch at a sidewalk bar-restaurant consisting of bocadillos with tortilla de patata. They also took a Jewish tour of the city on Wednesday while I was in class, which was apparently pretty interesting. I didn't know the city even had Jews.

Prague, however, had lots of Jews. Jews that lived there pre-WWII, and Jews from Long Island, NY, that flock there for beautiful May weekends. We flew as a family to Prague on Thursday to make the week in Europe a little more interesting (and thanks to 30Eur tickets from Clickair). It was interesting to compare weekend getaways with the family to those with friends, since rather than staying in a hostel we had a nice hotel, and rather than eating food from street vendors we ate at nice restaurants.

Prague itself was packed with tourists. We toured the castle, the old town square, and did a little exploring around the old city, but pretty much the only Czech people that I saw were in some way related to the tourism industry. One interesting moment, however, was when we happened upon a demonstration in Old Town Square by the emergency services department. They were simulating a rescue from a wrecked car, and ended up using the jaws of life to take the car completely apart.

The Jewish history of Prague is fascinating. They alternated falling into and out of favor with the ruling authorities, but for the most part maintained a thriving community for hundreds of years. One of the largest communities of pre-war Europe, the Jewish quarter now contains a multi-building museum of four synagogues and a large (12,000 grave) cemetery. Due to space shortages, successive generations buried their dead in new layers above previous layers, replacing all tombstones on top of the new layer. The result is extremely densely packed head stones, by the thousands. One of the synagogues was converted to a Holocaust memorial, and had the names, towns, birth dates, and yartzheits of all of the Czech Republic's Jewish community that perished in the war. It also contained a moving exhibition of the artwork from children in the Terezin ghetto.

We spent a full day visiting Terezin, about an hour outside of Prague. Unlike the average concentration camp, this ghetto was used as a means of propaganda by the Nazis, and looked more like a small town than a camp. The one time the Red Cross actually visited it, they spent two hours in a jeep, didn't acutally walk into any buildings, and two more hours having lunch. Needless to say thousands died in the camp (more from disease and undernourishment than murder), although most were deported to Auschwitz and murdered there.

Eating in Prague was delicious, thanks to being with my family. Apparently duck and lamb are the Czech delicacies, and the duck especially was excellent. The cheapest pint of beer I found was around $1, and the underground bars were more or less as I had heard. Despite repeated attempts, no one on CouchSurfing was able to meet up with me and my sister, so I didn't meet any locals, although in a city like Prague there are probably too many requests for the few interested locals.

My stab at a Barcelona visitor guide

Ok, here's a basic guide to this city. My old roommate from Philly, Jordan, is coming in and I'm going to be out of town, so I started writing some tips for what he should do. I got on a roll, and decided to make it super good and then post it on my blog.

Getting here:
When you land at Barcelona, walk out to the curb and look for signs for the blue and yellow Aerobus. Everyone else is probably taking the same thing,and there will probably be a line forming at the bus stop. Don't worry if the line is long, buses come frequently. Feel free to buy a ticket at the kiosk, or you can buy it directly from the driver. The cost is 3,90 each way ("solo ida"), or you could buy a round trip ("ida y vuelta") for a little less than twice that. The bus goes (after 3 or 4 stops, 25-30 min) to Placa Catalunya, where basically everyone will get off. This is the center of the city, with the old city "Ciutat Vella" just below the plaza and the new part "L'Eixample" (pronouced Lay-shamp-lah") above.

Touristy stuff:

• Passeig de Gracia is one of Barcelona's most famous streets, and walking up you'll pass designer stores, two famous Gaudi houses, and countless tourists. Definitely walk up and down it at least once during your time. I live right at the top of the famous part (just above Ave. Diagonal), about 20-25 minutes walk from Placa Catalunya.
  
• The Rambla is another major pedestrian avenue in Barcelona and extends from the opposite corner of Placa Catalunya as the bus. (It starts just to the right of the Hard Rock Cafe). It will probably be swarmed, but is still fun to walk around. Expect to see tacky street performers, and live birds for sale (I'm not sure to whom).
• Sagrada familia: famous Gaudi (~1900 architect, big deal in Barcelona) church. I'm not sure going inside is worth the money, much of the cool stuff can be seen from walking around. Metro: "Sagrada Familia". If you do go inside, you'll see a giant construction sight and an underground museum.
  
• Parc Guell: Huge Gaudi park full of weird architecture. Will probably be very busy on Sunday, but is open and free at all times (most everything else is closed on Sunday). Take the bus #24 from anywhere on Passeig de Gracia right to the park (get on going away from Placa Catalunya).
• Fortaleza de Mont Juic: Mont Juic is a big hill just southwest of the city. The fort is at the very top, and offers stunning panoramas of the city. Take a taxi there (~10 eur, make sure the driver understands you want to go to the fortaleza), and take the cable car back down to the metro station. Also free, although the cable car is like 5 more euros.
• Art museums: Two of note are the Picasso museum and the Miro museum. The Picasso one is more of his early stuff so it won't be what you'd expect. Still pretty good though. The Miro museum is right by the metro stop on top of Mont Juic, and showcases the life's work of this Barcelonian artist. He's a little post-cubist and experimental, so lots of different types of modern art to be seen.

Nightlife:

My favorite part of town is known as the Born. If you're looking at a map, its at the bottom of the old city just to the right of Via Laietana (a vertical avenue). Take the metro to Jaume I (pronounced Jou-mah pree-may), and walk down Carrer de la Argenteria which extends from the metro stairway diagonally. My best advice is for you to walk down some alleys, get a little lost, and turn around whenever you hit a road with actual cars on it. In this area you will find some real gems of tapas restaurants, bars, and shopping boutiques (closed after 9).

Bars close around 2 or 3, and if you want to go to a dance club, don't show up before 2. I'm no expert on the clubs, so consult a real guide if you want to go dancing.

Metro/bus:

• When taking the metro, go to any machine and get a "T-10" pass. It should cost 6.90, and is worth 10 rides. More than one person can share it, you just have to pass it back. Also, all metro vending machines have an English option.
• Metro directions are distinguished by the last stop in each direction. For example, the L1 Fondo goes east, and the L1 Hospital goes west.
• Buses use the same ticket as the metro. Just stick your ticket in the reader to validate it once you hop on (or twice if two people are sharing the ticket). If you just got off the metro, don't validate it, the transfer is free for the first hour or so.
• The metro is open until midnight Sunday-Thursday, 2am on Friday night, and all night Saturday night.
  

Random:

• Barcelona is in Catalunya, and the people native here speak Catalan. Everyone speaks Spanish, but don't call them Spaniards or they'll be quick to correct you. Catalan is a mixture of mostly Spanish and French, and all the street signs, metro stops, etc are in Catalan.
• 'X' in Catalan is pronounced "sh", and 'c' in Catalan is pronounced like 's'.
  
• Many stores close for siesta, around 2-4pm.
• Dinner is not eaten before 9pm, 10pm is normal, and 11pm not out of the question.
• Many restaurants serve a "menu" for lunch. Usually between 8-12 euros, it includes a 3 course meal and house wine. The word for an actual menu with the list of food and prices is "carta".
• Little supermarkets are a good place to buy things. A 1.5-liter bottle of water should be about 75 cents.
  

Renovations at home

This is a picture of my old room, care of my parents. When I get home, my new room is going to be on the other side of the house! Super crazy. Goodbye, memories.

Summer Camp Geography

About a week ago (more, now! Gosh I'm slow), Mallory and Molly paid me a visit from beautiful Firenze. Fortunately I had secured a king-size aero mattress from a friend, so I was able to host them in my new apartment which sadly lacks an extra bedroom.

I took them around the town, showing them my favorite spots in the Born for drinks as well as making a home-cooked dinner upon their arrival. Molly happens to have an absolutely fantastic camera, so we went a little crazy with glamor shots. All around the city, and n the Parc de la Ciutadella, we took lots of pictures which Molly posted on her flickr page. We rented a small rowboat for a half hour in the park, having numerous collisions with rowdy Italian teenagers and almost getting decapitated while going under a bridge that was probably not meant to be passed. We also it up the Fundació Joan Miró, a museum dedicated to the Barcelonian artist about whom I am writing my research paper. He's a bit of a crazy dude, so we had fun exploring the art, sculpture and other mixed-medium pieces at the museum.

Coincidentally, earlier last week I received a response from another local on LoQuo to my post about a language exchange. I figured it would be fun for my visitors to meet the new local with me, so I set up lunch with David for Friday. David, a half Swiss, half Catalan 20-year old from a town about 15 miles up the coast from Barcelona, met us for lunch and ended up spending all of Friday, and Saturday afternoon with us. He's a very international guy, having worked at summer camps in both Germany and in the US and speaking six languages fluently (Catalan, Spanish, Swiss German, German, English and French). He's hoping to start hotel management school in Switzerland this August, and wants to hone his already excellent English before starting. Lunch and the afternoon were great, and we ended up walking all around the city together. Afterwards, we headed to the Born for dinner, and after a criss-crossing the area twice, David conceded that he did not, as it turned out, know where he was going. He had mixed up which side of Via Laietana to go to, and I had been right all along. Score one for Dan.

After visiting the Miró museum on Saturday, David picked us up (in a car!) and we headed to the very top of Montjuic, where there is an old fortress that overlooks the city. The view was fantastic, and we would have stayed a little longer if only it hadn't been pouring. Fortunately, David's car was equipped with a giant umbrella and an extra raincoat, but it was still quite a wet expedition.

We met up with Scott and David (roommates) for dinner at a tapas place near Passeig de Gracia, which did not disappoint. I had rabbit, tried jamón for the first time (literally the most typical Catalan food) and went through quite a bit of 5 euro/bottle house wine. Later in conversation, it came up that (Catalan) David had been to a camp in the states, which happened to be in Asheville, North Carolina. Over the course of a few minutes, minds ticked together as we slowly realized the monumental coincidence which was taking place before our eyes. Scott, as well, went to camp in Asheville, and was hoping to meet a local from his camp with whom he had been emailing. David was hoping to meet another American from his camp. Turns out they had attended the same camp, although in alternate years, and had already been emailing eachother to meet up in Barcelona. It took us like ten minutes to comprehend the craziness. Small world!

Bicing: Awesome new form of public transport

The City of Barcelona has in the last few months started a new campaign for public transport know as Bicing. They are setting up 100 bike racks at locations all around the city, buying thousands of bikes, and creating a green, traffic reducing and cheap way for tourists and locals alike to get around.

The way it works is that each city-owned Bicing bike rack has a computerized kiosk that reads your Bicing membership card. It automatically unlocks one of the bikes (usually about 20 per station), and you can then take the bike to wherever you wish to go, returning the bike to any of the 100 stations around the city. As a kickoff promotion, one full year's usage is only 6 Eur, with a regular non-promotional price of 24 Eur. Then, the first half an hour of usage is completely free. After that, its 0,30 per half hour up to two hours, and 3 Eur/hour after that.

This is perfect for us to go to our class at Universitat Pompeu Fabra, which otherwise is a 30-minute metro commute away and happens to have a Bicing station right outside. Unfortunately the closest bicing station to our apartment is about a 10-minute walk (with a closer one scheduled to open after we leave in June).

This is one of the coolest innovations in public transport I have heard of in a while, especially in a bike-friendly city such as Barcelona. Maybe other cities around the world will follow soon!

A lesson in valuable vocabulary

Yesterday in Spanish class, we were watching a video of a popular Spanish sitcom called Camera Cafe. Similar to the office, the entire show is seen through a "hidden camera" at an office coffee machine, and throughout the workday you see the different characters' interactions during their often over-extended breaks. It's pretty corny, but funny.

Anyway, so that we could even have a chance of understanding them, Julia gave us a list of about twenty colloquial phrases that we would hear in the show before watching it. This included get trashed (ir puesto), puke (echar la pota), and laze around (tocarse los huevos).

Now, for those of you that are Spanish speakers, the image conjured up but the last one may not directly correlate to the meaning. We found it really funny to hear our young, sprightly female teacher saying "Oh yeah, I often just hang around playing with my balls."

Also, Spanish TV has no profanity rules. This show is broadcast from 9:30-10pm on most weeknights (dinnertime, the equivalent of 6:30-7pm in the US), yet included this vocab in addition to coño and joder (you can look those up). We had an enlightening conversation about profanity laws, basically realizing that in Spain, there just plain aren't any. None of the locals that we've spoken to on the issue can believe that you can't say "shit" on television in the United States.

On a slightly unrelated note, Julia also mentioned that it's not uncommon in Spain for people, before tests, to take a shot of liquor to loosen their nerves. Come on, tómate un chupito!

The new and more "chulo" neighborhood

Yesterday I had the enviable task of moving mine and my two rommates' things from our old apartment to our new one, at Carrer Mozart, 20, in the Gracia neighborhood of Barcelona. Where the old neighborhood was part of the well-planned, wide-streeted Eixample area, Gracia is a web of narrow streets and plazas filled with a young crowd of bar-going, cafe-frequenting, music-playing locals. Magda, my art history teacher, called the area "muy chulo" which basically translates to "cool".

Just as I arrived, I already ran into people going in and out of my building that seemed far more promising than the over-60 crowd of our old place. Good thing they were there, because I had three huge suitcases, four bags of groceries, one laptop, a pile of clothes on hangers, and a box full of all the other crap I couldn't throw anywhere else. Two Polish girls helped me carry the stuff up the three flights of narrow stairs.

The apartment itself is great. The bathroom has a huge tub, and the kitchen came complete with a microwave and a dishwasher. Two of the bedrooms have no windows and have double beds that basically fill each, and the third bedroom has a single bed, a wall of windows and its own bathroom.

Although there aren't six supermarkets within a stone's throw of the apartment, there are lots of little shops and after a little wandering I found a huge market with stalls selling fresh produce, meat and seafood. The commute to school (and the cooler sections of the old city) is significantly longer, about a 30 minute walk, but hopefully we find lots of fun bars around here that make walking to the Born and Bari Gotic areas less important.

What the Funk

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

London

Seven hours, three thousand miles and one Ambien after leaving Philadelphia, I was greeted with London Heathrow and the Picadilly Line to Gloucester Road. I dropped some stuff off at Jonah's apartment and checked my email, and then went for a solo adventure around town. I walked from his place in South Kensington to the Thames, through Hyde Park and by Buckingham Palace and Westminster Abbey. Exhausted, I took the tube back and slept for an hour on his couch.

Jonah and I went to the West End for the evening, where we lucked out with ten pound tickets for orchestra seating to Boeing, Boeing. It was a fairly stupid comedy about a Parisian man with three fiancees--all international flight attendants--who, unsurprisingly, come into conflict once in a while. The cast included the headmistress from the all-girls wizard school that participates in the tri-wizard tournament of HP4, who really stole the show.

By Thursday, Mallory had arrived, and she and I met up with Laurence and Chelsea (both from Stanford) at the Victoria & Albert Museum to see the new surrealist exhibit. We also had noodles together for lunch.

Mallory, incidentally, also brought with her the horrible weather, so we ended up doing a fair amount of walking in the rain. London is both big and small...small in that distances between tube stops that look really far on the map aren't all that far to walk, but big in that there are a lot of tube stops.

Other touristy attractions seen were the Tate Modern, the Cabinet War Rooms (a bit steep at 9 pounds, but interesting), and the British Museum. Plus lots of walking around: Trafalgar Square, Picadilly Circus and Leicester Square. I love the spellings of the areas...Gloucester and Leicester especially (pronounced Glouster and Lester).

We met up with Jenny and her roommate from Michigan on Thursday night for a few pints of cider, from which many pictures will emerge. Also, pubs in London are super lame in that they close at 1130pm. Go figure, I thought Europe was supposed to be a late place. Both nights in the hostel, I was the last person in the room (12 people, mind you) to go to bed at around 1am.

The crazy coincidence of today was running in to my tennis-lesson-mate from elementary school, Andrew, who is on the same program as Jonah. We got a pint of this strawberry smoothie beer (Fruli, it's good), just in time before I had to head to Gatwick.

So now I'm in florence, having just been ripped off by my cab driver and realizing the hostel is on the 4th floor without an elevator, but other than that things are looking good.

Also, sorry this was such an objective report, I'll try to be wittier in future posts.

Revving my engine...

Two quarters at Stanford complete, and Junior year now essentially over, I'm sitting at home in Villanova starting to prepare for my European adventure. I finally got some information from ALBA, my program in Barcelona, and can leave the United States knowing that I will actually have a place to live. Here is my itinerary:

Wednesday 28 March: Arrive London in the morning after a red-eye, and hang out with Jonah from Camp Harlam. We might catch a student rush fare for a West End show, and who knows, maybe we'll even see Equus. Mallory from Stanford gets to London Wednesday night, and we'll hang out for the next couple of days, along with a few British Harlamites.

Friday 30 March: Mal and I leave late at night and fly to Florence. I'll spend the weekend there hanging out with Mallory, who has been there since January and is staying until June.

Monday 2 April: Train to Bologna to reunite with my long lost wife, Jess. We'll consummate and enjoy a few days in Italy's college town, where Jess is spending the entire year.

Thursday 5 April: Flight to Barcelona. After 10 days of travelling, I'll finally head to Barcelona. I'm going to be staying in an apartment with David, a fellow Stanford tour guide, at Carrer de Mozart 20, Barcelona. Seems like a fairly central location, although I really have no idea about the layout of the city. We're also going to be sharing the flat with a guy from Dartmouth named Scott.

Orientation isn't until Monday the 9th, so I imagine we'll spend the weekend getting to know the city a little bit and having some fun. I'll also be having some dinners with the Caines, who are going to be in town visiting Jenny!

Week of 6 May-13 May: Mom, Dad, and Rachel all come to visit for a week. We'll spend three days in Barcelona and then an extended weekend in Prague. Should be awesome!

Friday 15 June: I unfortunately have to fly right back to the states at the end of the program, so not too much traveling in June. But I'll be back at Stanford in time to see my friends graduate!