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.
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