Vicky Cristina-less Barcelona Part I

Living in Spain for three months and not visiting Barcelona is pretty much a sin, considering Barcelona is viewed as the toast of Spain, a haven of beaches and unique architecture, with enough clubs and restaurants to satisfy anyone's palate. Therefore, before heading back to the United States, I decided to visit the Catalan capital and experience for myself the ciudad* that I had heard so much about (yes, partially thanks to Woody Allen). Ok, and the linguist in me was terribly curious to hear Catalan spoken, too. Unfortunately, Barcelona greeted me with cold and unpleasant weather, so I did not spend much time on the beach. However, I saw a great deal of other things that Barcelona has to offer, ones that weren't so season specific.

Upon my arrival in the city--after a completely uneventful plane ride--I set out, after lunch at the historic Café Zürich, on a walk through some of Barcelona's most notable neighborhoods: La Rambla, Barrio Gótico,** and Barceloneta. La Rambla is Barcelona's most famous street. It is a long boulevard, stretching from Plaça Catalunya to Plaça del Portal de la Pau, and it is lined with stores, souvenir shops, kiosks (some of them selling live chickens), probably the highest density of street performers in Spain, and Gaudi's Palau Güell. There are tons of tourists, despite the Catalan people's disdain for foreigners. Sorry, Cataluña, you can't be independent from Spain and be tourist-free.

Off of La Rambla is the Barrio Gótico, an old neighborhood with tiny, narrow streets, stone buildings, and the Barcelona Cathedral, the interior of which I visited at night, thus resulting in dark, low quality photographs that would only take up space if I posted them on here. The cathedral boasted an impressive nativity scene, which was uniquely beautiful amidst the colossal arches and flying buttresses of the cathedral. There was also a herd of gandering geese, whose presence I am still not quite clear about...Never mind, I suppose.

Barceloneta, which means little Barcelona, is the seaside neighborhood. Crowds of boats gently rock in the sunkissed, piercing blue Mediterranean Sea. People stroll down the pier to the mall that stands on the edge of the water. Modern statues appear here and there, contributing to Barcelona's already storybook appearance. A strip of clubs and bars lines the beach, topped by a giant Frank Gehry creation that resembles a whale. Appropriate. Houses in Barceloneta are old, colorful, and quaint--and as I learned firsthand, some of them don't have central heating.

To be continued...

*city

**Gothic Quarter

Madrid, Te Amo*

I am sort of obsessed with this picture I took of downtown Madrid tonight:

Unfortunately, my camera was not able to do this view total justice.

*I love you

Crushed Dreams

Everyone is familiar with cinematic daydreaming sequences. The person is blissfully floating in sweet thoughts, pretty music is playing, and then reality ruthlessly hits and the music halts with an askew, atonal chord. Well, that's what happened to me while I was fantasizing about the end of finals and my last week in Spain, fun-filled and worry free. Bam. British Airways strike. Apparently, the cabin crew has voted to strike for higher wages, which may possibly cancel all flights between December 22 and January 2. I am due to fly home on December 23. British Airways, get your bloody act together! I want go home on the day that I payed $600 to go home on!

Swiss is Delicious

Google images did not fail me. Upon entering downtown Zürich, I was greeted by the exact view that I had been expecting: cottage-like houses lining the river, bridges, clock towers, and Germanic churches popping out of the low line of roofs. The Limmat River, glittering despite the dull, overcast sky that hung over the city until my last day there, joins with the vast Lake Zürich, leading the eyes past the rippled water to the Swiss houses lining the lake to the magnificent Alps in the distance. Complete serenity, if you ignore the deranged, rambunctious seagulls that circulate the harbor, squawking Swiss nonsense.

Every half hour, the deep sound of church bells fills every corner of the city, penetrating even the busy bustle of Bahnofstrasse, an avenue commercially similar to Paris' Rue de Rivoli that ends in Zürich's train station, Hauptbahnhof. The Hauptbahnhof is worth mentioning because it houses Zürich's Christmas market. Dozens of stalls, side to side, fill up the space, displaying a plethora of items: candles, ornaments, potpourri, baking forms, food (and much to my pleasant surprise, free samples), scarves, jewelry, and a whole lot more. A giant Christmas tree adorns one end of the market. From far away, the tree appears to be covered in fresh frost, but upon closer examination, the tree is actually covered in Swarovski crystals, with crystal toys on display around the base.

Yes, Zürich is almost a fairytale place, but despite its charming Alpine beauty and exquisite food (coughSprünglicough), one needs to be very financially stable to keep busy in Zürich because it is a ridiculously expensive city. As much as I enjoy simply wandering the streets of foreign locales, it does eventually get boring--and Zürich is small--especially when it costs too much to relax in a café somewhere.

untitled

The order of blog business is as follows:

1. Zürich

2. goodbye Madrid

The problem is finding time to write.

I Went to Salzburg and All I Got Was a Mild Stick Beating From a Demon

The crowd parted rather quickly, loud enough for me not to discern between screams of awe and laughter. I saw a shaggy-haired demon heading towards me, staring venemously with tiny, rubber, black dots--eyes. I panicked and turned rapidly to follow my friends, but the demon had found his target. He grabbed my arm and lightly hit me with a stick. The crowd was amused but quickly closed in again. The demon disappeared, the sound of his stick hitting the sidewalk the only marker of his presence.

No, the Alpine yuletide does not involve public humiliation. I had walked right into the middle of an old pagan tradition: men dressing up as demons and running around with sticks, hitting people. Welcome to Christmastime in Salzburg, Austria, a tiny valley town alive with history and beauty, surrounded by the Alps, and at this time of the year, decked out in Christmas markets, which warm the December chill, and weird traditions.

So I was lucky enough to be properly initiated into Salzburg, but despite the title of this post, that wasn't all I did. The highlight of my weekend in Salzburg was the Sound of Music tour, a four-hour endeavor that took me to all the classic film's principle locations: the lake, the houses used as the front and back of the Von Trapp residence, the gazebo, and St. Michael's church--from the wedding scene--which is located in the small town of Mondsee just outside of Salzburg. It was amazing, as well as mildly surreal, seeing all the places that had existed only on my television for thirteen years. However, my favorite part of the tour was seeing the Austrian countryside through the windows of the tour bus as it rolled down the autobahn.* I saw rolling green fields, the towering Alps, glistening lakes, and small houses dotting the uneven terrain. I had the opportunity to get off the bus and take pictures of the town of St. Gilgen--and Wolfgangsee, the lake--and Mondsee, which is one of those charming Alpine towns that only seem to exist on postcards.

Salzburg itself is a charming Alpine town, the likes of which also appear on postcards: old European buildings, churches, orange-lit Christmas markets selling traditional glühwein (hot spiced wine) and stollen (Christmas bread), and the ambiance of local authenticity. Despite modern times, Germanic tradition seems to be deeply rooted in Salzburg. St. Nicholas walks around, distributing peanuts and candy to children, the demons float through the crowds with their sticks, carolers sing on the steps of the Dom Cathedral, and vendors at the market dole out--for money, of course--every handcrafted good imaginable. The Christmas spirit is alive and well, and despite the evening chill, I'm happy to be there among the demons.

*highway

Say Cheese

I think I have eaten more cheese in the last 24 hours than I have eaten in the last several weeks. I'm pleasantly surprised that my heart is still functioning properly. Good. There's always room for more cheese, but not more $30 fondue.

In Case I Overdose on Quality Cheese and Chocolate...

I would like to throw several words your way before parting with my beloved keyboard for almost a week to traverse through a small, albeit exciting, portion of the Alps region. Technically, that was the first order of business, but I will expand on the topic. Tomorrow evening, I leave for Zürich, Switzerland (I'm obsessed with umlauts, but that one really does belong there). Switzerland, to me, seems like a veritable wonderland of beauty, with little streets and quaint houses, all situated around water, with the snow-capped mountains looming in the background. I have wanted to visit Switzerland for quite some time now. Apart from being in love with its beauty (I've only seen pictures, but if Google images convince me, can you imagine what the actual country will do?), I find Switzerland's melange of cultures and languages fascinating. I will come back bearing stories of this seemingly mystical place, along with the more tangible treasures that are cheese and chocolate.

The wonderful thing about Europe is its proximity to everything else in Europe, so while in the Swiss region of this spectacular continent, I will also be visiting Salzburg, Austria. Six years ago, I had the opportunity to see Vienna, which I thoroughly enjoyed. I am sure Salzburg will be just as wonderful, especially because I will be going on the Sound of Music tour! Considering I was raised on that splendid film, I am horribly excited. Doe, a deer, a female deer...

Third order of business? I'm addicted to coffee. Perhaps I should create a separate bank account for java expenses.

Shouldn't Everyone Be Inside, Paveando*?

This year, the last Thursday of November was a touch odd. For the first time in my life, I was not home for Thanksgiving, a holiday and time of year I always enjoy and look forward to. However, what was odd was not the fact that I was not home, but the fact that I forgot it was Thanksgiving. I forgot that all my friends back home were headed somewhere familial for the week, ready to enjoy their days off. Despite having Thanksgiving plans of my own, the fact that it actually was Thanksgiving sat somewhere at the back of my mind, still waiting for that jolt of excitement that would yank it forward. An excitement usually triggered by sitting in Logan Airport with a Starbucks coffee in hand, waiting for my delayed plane. No such excitement this year. I proceeded with life as usual on Thursday. I went to work and guzzled my daily coffee without a single thought of not being able to bake pumpkin pie this year. It wasn't until later that evening, as I was walking to Plaza Prosperidad, did the thought enter my mind. What are all these people doing outside? Shouldn't they be at home eating Thanksgiving dinner? That was when I realized I was not in the United States and the Spaniards les importa un pimiento** about Thanksgiving. Needless to say, it was a strange day. I felt a little disoriented.

The following day, one I usually spend digesting Thanksgiving dinner and then gluttonously eating the leftovers, I went to Segovia for the final group trip. Despite the chilly and rainy weather due to Segovia's mountainous location and the current time of the year, it was a marvelous day. Segovia's contributions to historical interest are the castle, which was the inspiration for Cinderella's castle, the aqueduct, the cathedral, and the church where Isabel I was crowned Queen of Castilla. The rest of Segovia consists of the same little streets and plazas--of which I will never tire--that the rest of the small Spanish towns embody.

Despite Segovia's Segovianess, the highlight of the trip was the multiple course, traditional Segovian dinner that served as a Thanksgiving subsititute for all of us Americans, struggling without a huge, loud, long meal. Except we did not get turkey; we were served cochinillo*** in the traditional Segovian style. Considering I ordered salmon because I do not eat pork, I was apprehensive about seeing a suckling pig, but the dish turned out to be a little different than the plump, crispy, porcine behemoth I had expected. The relatively small pig, with its head and appendages still intact, was flat because everything but the meat had been removed. Cochinillo is so tender that the tradition is to cut it with the edge of a plate, to demonstrate that it requires no knife, and then to break the plate to prove that the plate is ordinary. It was unusual, fascinating, and not as repulsive as I had expected. You cannot do that with salmon.

*turkeying

**don't care at all

***suckling pig

untitled

It boils down to this: if you don't have a sense of humor or a sense of adventure, we will not get along.

Sargeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band

On my way out earlier today, I heard clarinet next door (or downstairs, since I cannot tell the difference). A few minutes ago, I chanced to hear drums. Add that to flamenco and gospel vocals and the trumpet, and the vecinos* have got themselves a band. I'm cool with it as long as I can sleep at night.

*neighbors

P.S.-

Yep, that's my neighbor. Gospel Girl is also in the video. I, however, prefer this version:

Bank Search Yields Some Wonderful Things

How pathetic is it that I have seen more of Madrid in the last two days than I have in the last month because of the constant search for a Barclay's Bank? Colorful Malasaña, swanky Salamanca, the festive museum circle, glitzy Gran Vía, and charming Chamberí, I saw them all. As much as I enjoy traipsing through various Madrid neighborhoods, I prefer not to be bank hunting simultaneously, because the rule is that when you intentionally look for something, you are not able to find it. It happened with the pastelerías* and it happened with the bank, which, in my opinion, can go follar un pez.**

Despite my quejas,*** I did discover some wonderful things this weekend, so the bank did not ruin everything. Read, enjoy, and come to Madrid and check them out.

carrot cake-I love a good carrot cake, so when a friend said to me, "There's a café near here that is famous for its carrot cake," I didn't hesitate. It was not the best carrot cake I had ever tried, but it was delicious nonetheless, with a thick layer of cream cheese frosting dribbled with chocolate. The café also had a relatively big selection of teas, juices, and coffees. I had a white pear tea, served in my own little teapot. The atmosphere of the eatery was just the way I like it: artsy, cozy, smoky, and warm, with clashing, yet comfortable, couches. I don't remember the name of the café, but I do remember where it is, which is more important anyway, right?

holiday spirit-Although it bothers me that Madrid is decked out in lights and Christmas trees that aren't yet lit (it's not too early, is it?), I am excited about the day when the city decides to press the 'on' switch. It will be a spectacular view. Speaking of holiday spirit, kudos to Starbucks. The employees are wearing red and green, holiday cups are being filled to the brim with the seasonal drinks, and I swear I heard "White Christmas" playing at the museum circle Starbucks on Saturday while I sipped my post-Thyssen mocha praline latté and discussed The Beatles with my friends. The only thing that feels unnatural to me is the warm weather. I am not used to seeing Christmas lights and frosty window displays without actual frost.

Calle de Goya-Fluorescent lights illuminating the street? High-heeled shoppers bearing stuffed shopping bags? Sounds like my kind of world.

VIPS-Until last week, I thought VIPS was a phone company or a business of that sort. The franchise's exterior doesn't really hint at food, and I had never stopped to look inside, so naturally, I did not assume it was a café/convenience store that, get ready, carries Reese's Peanut Butter Cups! Madrid does not generally stock them in regular stores, so I was thrilled to see the reddish orange package resting on the candy rack by the cash register. As I was leaving with my newly found treasure, I caught a glimpse of President's Choice cheeses in the refrigerator. I'll be coming back.

*pastry shop

**fuck itself

***complaints

Won't You Be My Neighbor?

You know how after taking a fixed route at a certain hour everyday for a long period of time, you start seeing many of the same people? Or if you always take the 8am train, you notice the same people and, eventually, their behavior as well? It is not much different when you live in an apartment. Even if you never actually meet your neighbors, you get to know their habits and ways pretty darn well due to thin walls and open windows (and the fact that Spaniards are generally loud). Think of Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window. His neighbors across the garden included the dancer, the lonely women, the woman who lowered her dog into the garden several times a day, and the murderer, of course. He probably had those nicknames for them, too.

After having lived in my apartment in Madrid for two months, I feel like I have gotten to know my neighbors well enough to tell you all about them and their colorful lives. I even have nicknames for all of them--just like Jimmy Stewart.

Gospel Girl-Gospel Girl is an American singer. I often hear her rehearse the same verse over and over. And over. She also blasts Whitney Houston whenever I am trying to nap. Once in a while, I can hear her speaking loudly on the phone in Ebonics. Sometimes I have to assure myself that I did, in fact, leave Chicago.

Pitingo aka Flamenco Singer-Pitingo is his actual stage name, but I usually refer to him by his nickname when complaining to my friends. At 11pm, I do not want to hear hoarse vocal undulations and dramatic, strumming guitar. I know Spain runs on a late schedule, but you're not the only tenant in the building, Señor* Perfectly Coifed Hair and Carved Biceps (I've seen YouTube videos). Also, it isn't in good taste to blast your own CDs for the entire courtyard to hear.

The Mother-Almost every night around midnight, the smell of tortilla española,** or some other fragrant delicacy, wafts through my open window. I hear the clanking of silverware and the family's docile speech, The Mother always insisting, "¡Cómelo! ¡Cómelo!"*** Typical.

Mysterious Trumpeter-Once in a while, I hear brief bursts of trumpet playing. It sounds like it is coming from the apartment next door, but sometimes it sounds like Pitingo's singing is coming from next door and he lives below me, so I don't actually know if Mysterious Trumpeter lives next door or if he is Pitingo. Pitingo, if it is you, 12am is not an ideal time for playing the trumpet! Jolines!****

The Buzzers-Every morning, and several times in the evening, the doorbell next door rings. Except it isn't a ring as much as a buzz, and every single time I jump, startled. I don't mind it much, except at 8am, when the stupid buzzer wakes me up, along with the elderly shouts of vengo***** that accompany it. Who is visiting you people everyday at 8am?!

*sir

**thick omelet with potatoes

***eat it

****jeez

*****I'm coming

Burrrrrrgos

As the bus sped down the highway, I looked nervously out the window at the brown Spanish landscape. Sparse shacks sprinkled the land. For a few seconds, I panicked. Was I going to spend the next six months on top of an unpopulated mountain?

Fortunately, as the clock neared 10:45am, a town appeared, its little buildings swallowing the bus in its Castilian stomach. I craned my neck to see as much as I could through the bus window. I saw European houses, all different colors, all old and cartoon-like. I was reminded of the Benelux region. A mixture of cobblestone and gray cement reflected the morning sun in the puddles left over from the earlier rainfall. People were just appearing on the streets. It was small, but definitely not as sparse and forlorn as I had expected.

Walking out of the bus station, I was greeted by a stately arc, decorated with statues and turrets. Typical Castilla León. It was as though the arc was saying to me, "Bienvenida a Burgos*" and ushering me into the heart of the city. Behind the arc, the Burgos cathedral towered majestically, its gothic splendor bathing in the November sun. The Burgos cathedral, La Catedral de Santa María, is the third largest cathedral in Spain. As the Spaniards like to say, it's muy impresionante.** I have seen many gothic cathedrals in my 20 years, but I never cease to be amazed by these ornate, colossal structures, built by human hands over centuries.

Burgos is an interesting and comfortable mix of the old and the new (where else are you going to see an antique, castle-like structure next to a Vodafone? Or bank headquarters in what looks like a medieval fort?), but the word that I think describes it best is charming. It's charming. The center boasts little streets and plazas lined with colorful homes--mauve, yellow, cyan, ivory--and various restaurants and cafés whose warm yellow lights are welcoming after the sun sets. Modern businesses rupture the antique homeliness, but it is 2009.

El Paseo de Espolón, one of Burgos' most beautiful and walkable streets, looks like a modern art exhibit. Chunky trees resembling ginger roots line either side of the street, their callused fingers reaching up to the sky. While some of the trees still sport some leaves, the majority is bald and exposed to the changing season. Leaves cover the ground, coloring it gold and rosy red. At night, the blue and purple lights illuminate the street, making it look like wonderland.

It's a far cry from Madrid, but Burgos, here I come!

*welcome to Burgos

**very impressive

P.S.-According to my friends, my pronunciation of Burgos is highly entertaining and Russian-sounding, hence the title of this post.

Things I Want in Life Besides Love, Happiness, and a Job in the Journalism Field

1. gold metallic Converse low tops

2. tan Burberry trench coat

3. new digital camera, because mine guzzles batteries by the dozen and the lense won't open without the help of my fingers

4. new iPod, because Biggles II seems to be reaching the end of his battery life

5. a Mac, because I no longer have the patience to deal with Windows and Elton is getting old

6. the ability to open my mouth and speak fluent French

P.S.-These are in no particular order.

untitled

To hell with you, Spanish customer service!

If That Won't Teach the Kids Subjunctive, What Will?

Yesterday, in the middle of going over the American Beauty script in my translation class, my professor stopped and asked us, the class, quite casually, "Have we gone over 'fuck' yet?" Immediately, everyone's ears perked up, because what college student doesn't love palabrotas*? Especially when nonchalantly inserted into academic context?

The next twenty minutes were spent discussing various Castilian vulgarities--convenient, considering the fact that everyday I wonder how I would verbally fend myself against unpleasant Spaniards should the need arise. Fortunately, that knowledge has now been bestowed upon me, for the low cost of $50,000 a year. But I digress.

Tapping the list of tacos** on the board with the chalk, the professor said, "Now, remember, if it starts with que,*** it's always subjunctive because it's really supposed to be espero que.****" Swear words and a grammar lesson in one? I say sí.*****

In case you are interested, here are some of the lovely phrases I learned (and don't forget to never say coger un taxi****** in Argentina):

joder

vete a la mierda

que te den

que te jodas

que te folles un pez

*bad words

**bad words

***that (in that particular context)

****I hope that

*****yes

******in Spain it means 'to get' or 'to grab,' but in Argentina it is a vulgar term

Madrid vs. Paris

The Metro

The Madrid metro is clean, punctual, and every single platform has a counter that informs you how soon the next train will arrive. The Paris metro is not so clean, only a few stops have countdowns for the next train, and I saw multiple people hopping over the turnstiles. I've never seen that in Madrid, although it would be considerably easier because the Madrid metro does not have a turnstile and a swinging door at each thruway. Furthermore, while the doors on the Madrid metro do not open until the train has completely stopped, people hop off the Paris metro while it is still moving. I was waiting for the train to stop so I could safely get off, and the Parisians behind me got impatient and a little pushy, like New York drivers at a fresh green light. However, the speed of the Paris metro slows the Madrid metro down to a crawl. The Paris metro literally zooms from stop to stop, taking me through ten stops in fifteen minutes.

Eating Outside

In Madrid, a person eating on the street is seen as an aberration to society, with the exception of ice cream in the summer. In Paris, people galavant down the streets eating sandwiches, crepes, etc. I am so accustomed to never seeing food on the street, that I was legitimately surprised to see people in Paris eating on the street. And then I joined in.

Cold Weather

When the temperature drops below 60 degrees, the madrileños* don their pea coats. When the temperature drops below 50 degrees, the madrileños walk around in down coats and thick scarves. The weather in Paris was in the high 40s/low 50s when I was there. The Parisians did not look like abominable snowmen. They were wearing pea coats and trench coats because they, like me, do not believe that 50 degrees is cold enough to dress as though they are headed to the wintry forests of Siberia. For that same reason, outdoor terraces in cafés were not empty. People were enjoying their coffees outside in the chilly Paris air, coats and scarves included, but outside nonetheless. Terrace seating in Madrid is not even available anymore.

Staying on the Right

On escalators and moving walkways in Madrid, those who want to stand keep to the right so the walkers can walk through on the left. The Parisians spread out all over the place, barring those who wish to walk. In the airport, I witnessed some very confused Spaniards trying to walk down the moving walkway past a group of Parisians--without much success.

Creepy Men

I was a pretty big hit with all the creepy men of Paris, who appeared out of nowhere to tell me that I had nice eyes or some merde** like that. An old man clacked while walking past me. I was even addressed as vous*** by someone older than me. I was standing on a bridge, taking pictures of the Seine, when a man walked up to me and asked, "Comment allez-vous****?" I actually understood him, so it gave me even greater satisfaction to mumble, "Je ne parle pas français.*****" In Madrid, the only compliment available is guapa****** and no one in his right mind would use usted******* in such a situation. Maybe blondes are more rare in Paris than in Madrid and thus merit vouvoyer.********

*people who live in Madrid

**shit

***formal you (French)

****how are you

*****I don't speak French

******pretty

*******formal you (Spanish)

********to address someone using vous

untitled

Coming soon: Madrid vs. Paris. Be there.

Paris, Je T'aimerai Toujours*

When one thinks of Paris, one thinks of love. Perhaps it is an old Parisian cliché, but it is true. No, I did not meet a dashing Frenchman who swept me off my feet in the three days that I was there. I met Paris itself, and Paris effectively managed to sweep me off my feet and leave me wanting more.

Apart from the very tops of monuments such as the Eiffel Tour and Notre Dame, one of the best views of Paris can be seen simply from the quai** of the Seine. Peaking through the golden foliage of the rustling trees lining the streets, you can see the waters, ruffled by the wind and current. Tour boats dot the Seine and people stroll down the embankment below. European buildings line the river, adding an elderly yet beautiful and elegant feel. The bank stretches for miles, as do the charming buildings, none of them identical.

Turning onto a bridge, any bridge, the city of Paris spreads out in front of you--vast and endless, interrupted only by the snaking Seine. On one side, the Eiffel Tower, pride of the Left Bank, rises above the Parisian immeubles,*** shadowing their grey classic roofs. On the other side, gothic architecture timidly yet prominently peaks out from behind the buildings, marking the Isle de la Cité and Quartier Latin.

The Quartier Latin, my personal favorite arrondissement,**** is a flavorful Parisian mixture of the old and the new, a microcosm of the city itself. Known as the historically intellectual neighborhood of Paris--it houses the Sorbonne--the Quartier Latin is like a little village full of narrow streets, tiny sidewalks, and old buildings that the musketeers probably hung out in. Among the various shades of brown, bright awnings and lit up bistro signs pierce through the monotone color palette. Ceramic flower pots stuffed with pink and red flowers nod to the street crepe vendors, outdoor cafés, and shoppers who traverse the bustling Boulevard of St. Michel. Even the occasional commercial giants--McDonalds and Starbucks--do not take away from the neighborhood's distinct character. Rather, they serve as even more hubs for afternoon rendez-vous.*****

Upon hearing that I would be going to Paris a few weeks ago, someone told me, "Be prepared to fall in love every ten minutes." I did. Parisian streets emit a certain je ne sais quoi,****** a character, an emotion. Paris is unlike any other European city I have ever had the opportunity to visit and it fills me with sadness that I will never have the chance to live there nor speak the language. Admiration, sadness, regret. Sounds like love to me.

*I will love you forever

**bank

***buildings

****district

*****meeting

******I don't know what

How a Bargain at H&M Made Me Homesick

"I like your jacket, where did you get it?"

"H&M, it was $5."

"The one here?"

"No, at home, on the Gold Coast."

"Oh, you mean home home."

"Yeah."

As soon as the words "Gold Coast" escaped my lips, my mind zoomed to North Michigan Avenue, like a projector fast forwarding through stills to get to the right image. I saw the Water Tower and the shiny, gilded, designer boutiques, their spotless windows gleaming in the sun. I could see the still, hot, summer air pressing down on the shoppers, as though I were suspended in the air, overlooking the area. And for a few moments, I was sort of sad.

Although I am used to being away from Chicago, and claim missing Boston more than the Windy City, it remains my home, and the sudden mention of "home home" made me realize that I sort of do miss it. Home contains a special kind of familiarity--the kind that has the ability to warm your heart. Whenever I chance to see pictures of Chicago, I smile, because it is always a welcome sight. The Sears Tower, the red CNA building, Buckingham Fountain, everything.

So where am I going with this? Nowhere, really. I just wanted to pay a little homage to the hub of the Midwest. I guess I really do miss it sometimes.

It's a Beautiful Day in My Neighborhood

The appetizing fragrance of tortilla española* wafts through my open window. The clanking of silverware and rapid maternal speech echo through the courtyard. It’s midnight. While I am ready to turn in for the night, the families that live in my building are just sitting down to dinner, their dynamics on display for everyone to see and hear. From another part of the building, I enjoy a different kind of performance. The flamenco singer who lives in the apartment below mine is practicing, his raspy voice gliding all over the scale, crooning Andalusian tunes.

The quiet, residential neighborhood of Alfonso XIII, more commonly known as El Barrio de Prosperidad, is a cesspool of a large variety of people from several different generations. Teenagers traipse up and down the streets, stopping at the shoe boutiques or electronics stores that pepper the blocks. They congregate near the large McDonalds across the street from the metro. Mothers walk alone or in pairs, pushing strollers or lovingly leading their well dressed, newly walking toddlers by the hand. Sharply dressed businessmen plow down the sidewalk, their shiny dress shoes reflecting the sun as they make wide strides, briefcases bouncing at their sides. The older generations stroll arm in arm, always dressed fashionably in dresses, woolen cardigans, and fedoras, brandishing their canes. The abuelas** chat while the abuelos*** discuss politics. Once in a while, a Real Madrid player can be spotted gracing the humble streets, or so my host mother tells me.

Although a completely modern neighborhood, Alfonso XIII emanates a comfortable, lived-in, familiar feeling. There are no big businesses in sight, only small stores and private boutiques. Hair salons and cafeterías**** abound—and are populated at all hours of the day. Walking to the metro every morning, I am accustomed to the delicious aroma of coffee and the sounds of spoons tapping the saucers and murmured exchanges between proprietors and customers filling the streets. Except for the dead of night, when the street lights are faintly reflected in the naked pavement, the neighborhood is always lively, despite its generally slow pace.

A mere 10-minute walk from the Alfonso XIII metro is the Berlin Park, which is a haven on sunny days. Birds chirp, laughing children chase each other, and runners run. The park’s entrance on Concha Espina boasts a modest fountain adorned with the unmistakable pieces of the Berlin Wall, engulfed in the trickling fountain water. Not much farther, the majestic Santiago Bernabéu Stadium towers over the street corner.

While the Alfonso XIII area does not offer chic shopping or swanky lounges, it does offer a first-class view of daily Spanish life. Walking down the neighborhood’s main street, Lopez de Hoyos, or eating lunch in one of the many sidewalk restaurants is a good way to pass a lazy, autumn, Saturday afternoon before getting dolled up and heading to the trendier districts for some evening entertainment.

*thick omelet with potatoes
**grandmas
***grandpas
****cafés

P.S.-I wrote this article for the My Metro section of the magazine I intern for. Every month, the section profiles a different neighborhood. The December issue will feature mine!

Mojitos and Transvestite Nuns

Getting off at La Latina was entering a different world compared to the modern, symmetrical barrio* of Prosperidad I had left ten metro stops behind. La Latina is an older neighborhood adorned with older, quirkier, and more colorful buildings, some of which don't even stand up straight. In other words: the ideal neighborhood for Halloween festivities. While in Prosperidad I caught sight of several H&M clad guys with scream masks walking casually down the street, in La Latina I was greeted by hoards of witches, devils, vampires, and other costume-clad folk ready to fiestar.**

Alice, the Queen of Hearts, and the Mad Hatter--me--made their way down the cartoon-like streets, in search of the bar. The inside was dimly lit and decorated with ghosts, spiders, spiderwebs, and jack-o-lanterns. If it hadn't been for the loud Castilian chatter (Spanish conversations are essentially competitions for the most powerful set of vocal cords), I would have thought I was back in the good old USA.

Despite the fact that many people questioned our costumes, I feel that we were original in the sea of all sorts of dead things. My glittery silver top hat seemed popular, considering people kept taking it off my head and trying it on, although I am convinced that half the reason people bothered to do that is because my head was conveniently at reaching level since I was generally below everyone else, being five feet tall. Some Irish guy was entertained by my teacup and kept asking me for tea.

The arrival of the transvestite nuns set the tone for the rest of the evening. I was very interested in taking a picture with them because their costumes were hilarious, so the inhabitants of Wonderland struck up a conversation, got a few pictures, and 15 minutes later, free copas*** as well.

Although Halloween is still a budding holiday in Spain, people dress up and get into the spirit as much as people in the states do. The main differences are that there are way less house parties, because Spanish social culture centers around public places, and there are absolutely no decorations anywhere. Walk into a bar on Halloween, and you leave the bland normal world outside and enter the demon underground.

...so when's Christmas?

*neighborhood

**to party

***drinks

untitled

Just because I've learned not to electrocute myself anymore doesn't mean that I am incapable of getting super glue all over my hands.

Hey Boys, Where the Pastelerías* At?

There is no doubt about it, Madrid is a city full of foodies. Some sort of gastronomical establishment occupies every other building and bars give you more free food with every cerveza** you purchase. Walk by a bar or café at any given moment in the day and you will see at least one person leaning against the bar, having a merienda*** and chatting up the bartender, or sitting in a corner enjoying a coffee and the newspaper. So why is it that the one evening I decided to shell out a couple euros and treat myself to a pastry to celebrate the end of midterms, there wasn't a pastelería to be found? From Callao to Sol to Anton Martín, nothing. I discovered at least five Irish pubs. I found a Hawaiian bar. I was offered free food at not one, but two tapas places. But a pastelería? God forbid.

*pastry shops

**beer

***snack

P.S.-The title of this post references a movie. Name that movie!

The Most Spanish Weekend I've Ever Had

Watching the flamenco dancers stomp their way through Andalusian guitars and vocals, I thought about how strange it was that coming from a virtually unknown Midwest suburb, I was in Córdoba, a city--albeit small--known for its rich, Muslim history and important place in Spanish history. I smiled to myself as I sipped my vino blanco*; it was the first time that I actually felt like I was really in Spain.

Getting off the AVE train, Spain's high-speed rail service, I wondered if Córdoba would be similar to Granada, considering their location in Spain, proximity to each other, and joint place in history. The small narrow streets, of which I will never tire, seemed brighter, fresher, and less crowded than the brown-tinted streets of Granada. The old, Arab architecture also seemed more prominent; every house had an open, arched doorway, inviting glimpses into the darling patios adorned with tiles, plants, and fountains. The shop-lined streets had a labyrinthian quality, leading certain lost travelers from plaza to plaza.

Considering this was a group trip, the first stop after we dropped of our suitcases in the charming Hotel Selu was La Casa Sefardi, the Sephardic museum. There, sitting in a lovely, breezy patio, we listened to a very brief lecture on the history of the Sephardic Jews and their role in medieval Spain. Afterwards, we toured the rooms of the house, which were stone cellars with old artifacts on display, such as ceramics and musical instruments. It was interesting, but I was more intrigued by the tour guide's Andalusian accent, which very prominently omitted the /s/ and skimmed gracefully over the /d/. Yes. Linguistics.

Following La Casa Sefardi, we were allotted several hours of free time to eat lunch and explore. I ate my salmon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich and ciruela** on the steps of the mosque, which is as grandiose in Córdoba as the cathedral is in Granada. Eating lunch, I observed a familiar sight: the gypsies. Fortunately, none of them tried to force rosemary on me this time. Following lunch, I purchased ice cream in my two favorite Spanish flavors: turrón*** and green apple. An aimless walk around the mosque and its surrounding area lead me and my friends into the Museum of Torture, where the man who worked there offered me and Beth jobs because we were guapas**** and spoke English. Thank you, but I aspire to a more exciting career, whatever it may be. The Museum of Torture was eerie, disturbing, and had me thinking of Monty Python's Spanish Inquisition sketch the entire time, especially when I saw the rack.

Upon reuniting with the rest of the group, we went inside the old synagogue, which turned out to be one room. However, it had very impressive decorations: stucco etchings, carvings, arches, etc. I took several pictures and walked out, considering there was little to do in the empty, and relatively small, interior.

Walking through the streets of the judería,***** we made our way back to the mosque, which is amazing and a stunning example of the art human beings are capable of creating. The interior is filled with columns and brick arches with distinct white and maroon stripes. The sheer amount of the columns and arches is unbelievable and creates a gorgeous effect. However, the most impressive part of the mosque is the church built inside of it. The church is ornate and done in the dramatic Baroque style. It's a full on church. Inside a mosque. Why is there a church in the middle of a mosque, you ask? After the Christians defeated the Muslims in 1492, they converted all the Muslim structures for Christian use. The minaret of the mosque was turned into a bell tower, a typical example of how the Christians utilized Muslim works. I think I may have liked this mosque more than the Alhambra.

That evening, a group of us had dinner at 101 Tapas, which had a large selection of cheap, delicious tapas. Without realizing, I ordered the most stereotypical Spanish dishes: olives, patatas bravas,******croquettes with goat cheese, apple pastry, and, of course, sangría! ¡Olé!

Post-dinner, we attended tablao flamenco, which is flamenco performed in a bar-like atmosphere, drinks included. The white wine I consumed was good, but the flamenco performance was even better. The dancers exuded so much passion while dancing, it was difficult not to share in their emotions, even as an audience member. I was in awe at the precise--and super fast--footwork and graceful, exotic wrist movement and castanet clacking. The guitarists and vocalists themselves were very talented and jubilant, which made the performance even more enjoyable because it was evident that these musicians love what they do. Watching, with a stomach full of olives and sangría, I thought about how happy, and lucky, I was to be in Spain.

*white wine

**plum

***nougat

****good looking

*****historical Jewish district

******potatoes with spicy tomato sauce

P.S.-I realize that I described only one day, which doesn't really make up a weekend. Ok, fine. The following day we visited two more museums and I ate more tapas (mushroom croquettes, this time). Trust me, the first day was much more exciting.

Goooooooooooal

I was eating my garbanzo stew for dinner last night when I chanced a glance at the TV and saw the vast field of Santiago Bernabéu Stadium littered with running athletes, some dressed in white, some dressed in red and black. The crowds up in the bleachers were massive despite the disagreeable weather. It was the Madrid vs. Milan fútbol* game, an anticipated match. Despite the fact that it had been at they very back of my mind (like, row Z), I actually was aware that the game was that night.

Quickly, as soon as Raúl González started dribbling the ball around, I was interested. Despite my complete lack of affinity when it comes to deportes,** soccer is an enjoyable sport and the game escalates to high intensity in mere seconds, taking the spectator with it. After a few moments, my eyes were glued to the screen, my right leg bouncing nervously, my fork suspended in mid-air. The ball zigzagged through the field, playing connect the dots with Madrid and Milan as it passed from white to red and black. The commentators flew through their commentary, surprisingly calm for such a high-speed partido.***

What I like about soccer is that every single goal is a big deal. The players jump on each other, hug, shake hands, slap each other's backs, etc. A goal is a raucous party always followed by several slow motion replays of the goal from different angles, highlighting the dramatic look of anger on the defending goalie's face when he misses the ball.

Of course, I still have a lot to learn about watching soccer games because I am not yet fluent in swearing angrily at the TV in Spanish, and I definitely cannot watch such excitement in silence. American swears I save for when the Red Sox play in the World Series, the one baseball game I watch a year.

P.S.-Madrid lost to Milan 2-3.

*soccer

** sports

***game

Alhambra Now, Sleep Later: The Granada Chronicles Part III

As ridiculous as it may seem, Dana, Katie, and I were at the Alhambra's doors promptly at 5am on Sunday, with blankets and snacks.

That's us with two other girls from the program who were also in Granada that weekend. Thank you, German boy who we met in line but whose name we never got, for taking this picture! Despite the three chilly hours we spent sitting on the cold cement and nibbling on Lay's potato chips and Príncipe cookies, the wait was rather enjoyable. The situation itself was sort of ridiculous and we met some other students who kept us entertained, including German boy from Bonn. At 8am, when the ticket office opened, we began suspiciously eyeing the credit card line, praying that the people selling tickets would not move so slowly that the credit card line could claim victory over us cash-bearers. Finally, a little after 8am, we got our hands on the coveted pieces of paper otherwise known as tickets. Mission accomplished. Granada trip not in vain.

It is difficult to describe, however good one may be with words, the beauty of the Alhambra (with the exception of Washington Irving). Instead, I offer you a series of pictures of the best--and most beautiful--example of Muslim architecture in the world. Enjoy!

Nasrid Palace:

stucco etching and tiles

arched windows with a view of Granada

etched wall in courtyard with tiled doorframes

the fountain in the middle was being restored

ceiling

arches

Generalife Gardens:

Generalife Palace

P.S.-I apologize for the amount of time it took to post all the Granada posts. After my return from Granada, I had a lot of work to do and a nasty cold to deal with. Fortunately, I am finished just in time for my trip to Córdoba, so expect new material soon!

Public Opinion

My very first official movie review can be read here!

Alhambra Now, Sleep Later: The Granada Chronicles Part II

I awoke very early on Saturday morning, convinced that I would see the Alhambra that day. By 7am, Dana, Katie, and I were standing in line on the hill, shivering, but excited to see the glorious fortress. At 8am, the box office opened. A voice announced that there were 80 tickets left for the morning tour and 103 tickets left for the afternoon tour. Surely, we were part of the first 80 people (don't call me Shirley), and if not, definitely part of the next 103 people. The line had barely moved when the voice announced that the morning tickets were sold out. How? Confusion swept through the queue. To whom had these mysterious tickets been issued? Rumors surfaced about another line somewhere. Ten minutes later, all the afternoon tickets were sold out as well. All around us, there was great displeasure. After some eavesdropping and some inquiries, we were elucidated to the fact that there had, indeed, been another line. A line for people paying with credit cards. A line that moved much faster than the taquilla* because the people working there moved at a glacial pace. Joder.** Getting out of line, we decided to be proactive and arrive at 5am the following morning. We were not leaving Granada without seeing the Alhambra.

Hungry, we decided to head to the Albaicín to desayunar*** and explore. The Albaicín is the old, Moorish neighborhood--situated on a hill facing the Alhambra. The streets are narrow, cobblestone, and uneven, going this way and that. The houses are whitewashed with terracotta roofs and ceramic flower pots are cheerfully lined up on windowsills. The quaint neighborhood bears the feeling of a seaside town, even though there is no body of water nearby. The cars parked on the streets almost seem like anachronisms.

It was still relatively early when the bus dropped us off at the Albaicín's doorstep, so we wandered aimlessly, our stomachs growling and our eyes searching for an open cafetería.**** A man walked by us carrying loaves of bread. Immediately, we trotted in the direction from which the man had come and stumbled upon a bakery. Greedy from hunger, we stocked up on various pastries as well as a big loaf of bread to share. Happy, like Dickensian orphans with their daily bread, we continued walking and stopped at a café to have some coffee. The café was just like any other café in Spain: small, bustling, and warm. However, its location in a neighborhood that felt more like an old town made it all the more cozy. People seemed to know each other and the atmosphere was very homely. Women were having their morning coffee together while elderly gentlemen in cardigans sat discussing the latest news. I felt as though I had been transported into another time. Sometimes, it is difficult to believe that places such as this café still exist when you spend most of your time in a modern, bustling, metropolitan center.

Considering the Albaicín's opportune location on a hill, it hosts some seriously splendid views of Granada below:

Furthermore, while we were in the café infiltrating our bodily systems with caffeine--at least I was--the neighborhood around us woke up. Upon exiting the café, we encountered a market selling produce.

People were going on about their daily lives or simply strolling, enjoying the October sun. Take that, Alhambra.

*box office

**fuck

***to have breakfast

****café

Alhambra Now, Sleep Later: The Granada Chronicles Part I

Considering the visual dent I made on Facebook with my 200+ pictures of Granada, it is no secret that this past weekend, I traveled to Granada. For the geographically challenged (don't be ashamed, I once thought Ireland was somewhere near Italy myself), Granada is located in southern Spain in the autonomous community of Andalucía. Andalucía is the biggest autonomous community in Spain and was once ruled by Muslims. Muslim influence is very visible throughout the city, particularly in the architecture of the older buildings, and, of course, the Alhambra itself.

It would be unfair to say that the trip began once my feet touched the Granada soil--or cement. The trip commenced approximately at 12:50am the night before, when I got on the metro headed towards the airport. Was my flight at 3am or another crazy hour that, crazy as it was, could merit my arrival at Barajas at 1:30am? Absolutely not. My flight was at 6:30am, but a taxi ride to the airport is about 35E, so my logic should be rather evident here. Upon our arrival at the airport, my friends and I discovered that we were not, in fact, the only ones who had had the idea of spending the night at the airport for the sake of saving money. Terminal 1 was lined with people curled up under fleece blankets, jackets, sweaters, and each other. Finding a small piece of wall conveniently by the Ryan Air check-in desk, we settled down and tried to get some rest, although that soon proved to be impossible considering the floor was freezing. By the time we were herded onto the plane at 6:15am, we were gasping for some shuteye.

Two and a half hours later, I got off the bus in el centro*. I looked around, the city strange to me. Following the directions to the hostel that I had written down, I walked through small, café-laden, cobblestone streets. It was still relatively early and the city was just waking up. Shopkeepers were slowly opening doors and waiters were lazily setting up terrace seating under the kindling sun. On my left was a massive, Gothic cathedral: the Granada Cathedral, home to the tombs of the Catholic Monarchs. Palm trees sparsely surrounded the cathedral, creating an unusual view.

Passing banks and little cafeterías,** I found my street, a charming passage with old, European buildings and a cozy feel.

After a rejuvenating nap--not factoring in the disturbingly close cooing of pigeons that I expected to see fly through the open window--I set out to explore Granada. During the hours I had been napping, life had sprung up around the cathedral. The perimeter was surrounded by a bustling market selling everything from weight loss herbs to earrings. One side of the cathedral was lined with baskets of teas, herbs, spices, and sugared donuts. I lingered to smell the sweet aroma of rooibos and to marvel at the vibrant color of the azafrán molido.*** Just around the corner, I discovered paradise: endless tables piled high with every variety of candy imaginable and mounds of pastries and freshly baked breads. Chocolate-covered palmeras**** and citrus-glazed shortcake smiled at me as I wrestled the crowd's arms out of my way and fought for a narrow path to go forward. The narrow streets opened up to a square filled with artisan booths selling scarves, bags, and hand-crafted jewelry. Burning incense and drums filled the air. Vendors were roasting chestnuts and grilling corn; the savory smoke danced into the blue skies.

As I approached the entrance to the cathedral, a woman stuffed a rosemary stem into my hand. Knowing better than to accept random objects from random people on the street, I murmured muchas gracias***** and tried to give the rosemary back to her, but the lady insisted that it was free, so I shrugged and tried to keep walking. Tried. She stopped me, grabbed my hand, and started reading my palm. Eh, what the hell, it's free, I thought. I waited patiently for her to finish because I don't need lines on my hands to tell me that I'm intelligent or that I will have one great love in life. Bitch, please. Ahora paga.******I snapped out of my stupor. Crafty, conniving, crooked-toothed gypsy. Me dijo que es gratis. Sí, solo el romero. No. Paga, todos pagan. No. Venga, una moneda. Dije que no.******* I won, but as I walked away unscathed, I heard the woman mutter, que rompas tu cabeza. No entiendes nada de la belleza.********Yep, I'll get right on that.

The cathedral itself was interesting, mainly because of the tombs of the Catholic Monarchs and the small exhibition of their relics, such as scepters and robes. I have been to so many cathedrals in my life that only dead royalty could lure me into another one. There was also a collection of Renaissance art, but let's be real here, why would I want to see more Jesus paintings? I think I have seen enough Madonnas, crucifixions, St. Whatevers (and their lambs), and tryptichs of whatever assumption. But the tombs were cool.

*the center

**cafés

***ground saffron

****elephant ear pastries

*****thank you very much

******now pay

*******You told me it was free. Yes, only the rosemary. No. Pay, everyone pays. No. Come on, a coin. I said no.

********I hope you break your head. You know nothing of beauty.

untitled

I think the part of my brain that deals with directions went on overload in Granada and shut down today, because I got lost and I have no idea how it happened.

Blog Infidelity

Check out my internship blog here!

untitled

More tales of Sima's magnificent Madrid adventures will soon be revealed. She has been rather busy lately. That sangría doesn't drink itself, you know.

There's a Reason I Dislike Horror Movies

One of the perks of my internship at European Vibe Magazine is attending press screenings of movies so I can later review them. Ok, perhaps I am getting a little too far ahead of myself. I got to attend a press screening, but hopefully there will be more. The movie I saw, as you can guess from the title of this post, was a horror movie: Rec2. It is the sequel of Rec, which was released in 2007. Apparently, Rec was so popular and well-received in Spain, that there was an American version, Quarantine, released (so typical of America to do that). Furthermore, Rec gained a cult following and tomorrow's release in Spain is highly anticipated. I feel incredibly important having gotten to see it early, even though I do not like horror movies and therefore would never have gone to see this of my own free will. That being said, I feel that a brief synopsis is in order.

Rec2 begins several minutes after the events that end Rec. The Spanish SWAT team investigates an apartment building, the floors of which are covered in blood. There are several SWAT members and their boss, whom I at first assumed to be a forensics specialist because he was taking blood samples; it turns out he is a priest. The priest leads the SWAT team on a mission around the deserted building, full of possessed demons who were previously humans (probably former inhabitants of the building). It is imperative that the investigating party locates the blood of the first girl who was possessed. Her blood is necessary to make an antidote that will help all the others. The possessed demons hide everywhere and attack out of nowhere; they appear to be immortal unless their heads get blown off or someone sticks dynamite in their mouth. You can laugh. It was funny. At the end, the priest and the last surviving member of his team are deceived by no other than the girl whose blood they are in search of. And then they all die. Brilliant. The main reason I dislike horror movies, apart from the fact they scare me (which this one did not), is because they all have the same formula: seemingly innocent dwelling of some sort+new, creepy, unusual, disturbing occurrences+timid investigation+scary beings attack from the dark abyss+cute child turns out to be the spawn of Satan (optional)+unresolved ending/death=blockbuster hit! Guaranteed, every single time!

This movie not only adhered to the tedious formula, it made the attacks incredibly predictable almost to the point of comedy. SWAT team, after two or three attacks, is it not yet blatantly obvious that when you enter a deserted apartment you will be attacked by a host of possessed demons? Come on. People in the audience were laughing. Fortunately, the movie was only 90 minutes long, although I can honestly say that I would not have minded it being longer if the ending had somehow been resolved. Rec2 was not much more than an indulgence in violent and gory scenes. And the priest bore a striking resemblance to Willem Dafoe.

untitled

How does one become a freelance editor?

Reunited: Sima and Confetti Goat Man

The title says it all. While walking through Plaza Mayor last night, I noticed all the street performers and immediately turned to search for Confetti Goat Man from my first day in Madrid. I found him!

P.S.-If you are devilishly confused, read this blog post.