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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.

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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!

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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.